Serendipity
by MollyMack
Summary: Despite the war raging in Dublin, Patrick Branson is determined to live and love as he always has, with careless abandon. But life has a surprise for the youngest Branson brother, and fate has an odd sense of humor. Sequel to Skeleton Dance.
1. Drinks All Around

_Take a drink because you pity yourself, and then the drink pities you and has a drink, and then two good drinks get together and that calls for drinks all around. -_ H. Beam Piper

 **June 23, 1919**

 **Murphy's Pub, Dublin**

Patrick Branson was feeling sorry for himself, and he didn't know how to handle the experience. He was wallowing, he realized in surprise. This just wasn't him. Melancholy was alien to his nature. Things that would have flattened another man were taken in stride; circumstances that should have left him frightened or unhappy were safely locked away in his mind and left to fade away. It had always worked well for him before.

So what was the problem now?

No one would have faulted him for being angry at what had been done to him. The bruises and the headaches were a constant reminder that Ireland was at war, that the innocent were as likely to be caught up in the violence as those who sought it out. Two weeks ago he had been walking down his own street, minding his business, when he'd been set upon by a gang of toughs who thought he was in the IRA, and beaten near to death.

That the attack was a case of mistaken identity, that their intended target had been his brother Michael, who _was_ in the IRA, did not help when he couldn't sleep at night for the pain, or when he forgot mundane things that he should have known. His new sister-in-law Sybil was a nurse, and she had assured him that the memories would come back; it just took time. He trusted her…hell, he was half in love with her…but it was frightening just the same.

And there it was—the source of one of his problems. Women. Since his brother Tom had come home from England five weeks ago with Lady Sybil Crawley, no woman was enough to hold Patrick's interest. Sybil was just different, exciting…perfect, and dammit, she belonged to Tom, heart and soul. They were so in love it was sickening; neither had eyes for anyone else if the other was in the room. He loved his big brother with every fiber of his being, but sometimes he was so jealous he just wanted to drown himself in a vat of Guinness. Which he was trying to do right now, with some success.

He had plenty of time for his new endeavor. He'd been out of a job before the attack, and now he was next to useless until he healed. He was ashamed that he wasn't pulling his load in the family, even though he knew they didn't fault him for it, given the circumstances. Everyone needed to be productive in order to make ends meet. But he couldn't work, and that was all there was to it.

So…ticking off his problems in his head…he had no girl, no job, and no hope that either of those things would change anytime soon. Well, that was not strictly true, at least not the first item. He had more women than he knew what to do with. He was currently seeing three girls, none of whom knew about the others. Before the attack, keeping them apart and appeased had been the only danger in his life, and since the attack they all wanted to mother him. God knew, if his actual mother knew about all this there'd be another sort of attack, one which he'd be unlikely to survive! Claire Branson did not play.

Besides, none of his three girls were at all like his sister-in-law. They cared about fun and looking pretty, which had been fine with him—until Sybil. She was beautiful, sure, but also brave, and the most ambitious woman he had ever met. In fact, the only woman he'd met who had come close to measuring up to her was her sister, Edith. Lady Edith to you, lad, he told himself. They had met for the first time two days ago at Tom and Sybil's wedding, and had hit it off right away. She was pretty, and smart, and he had sensed a vulnerability in her that he found charming.

They had spent most of the wedding party together, swapping stories and drinking. Oh, how that woman could drink! He'd told her that she must have been an Irish changeling, the way she could down a pint. She'd taken it as a compliment and challenged him to a contest. He'd told her about his crazy sisters and their escapades. She'd invited him to England to be her chauffeur, which was her little joke—that had been Tom's job, before he'd fallen in love with Sybil and stolen her away to Ireland. They'd laughed, a lot. All in all, Patrick couldn't remember when he'd had so much fun.

Oh yeah—and she was four years older than he was. And an aristocrat. So that was that. Plus, she was gone, back to England and her posh lifestyle. He was sure that _Lady_ Edith had already put Sybil's funny little brother-in-law with the mangled face and rainbow of bruises into her scrapbook of amusing memories. Shame she hadn't met him at his handsome best. Shame he wasn't rich. Or English...wait, no! He'd be damned if he'd ever wish for that! Too bad he was just a kid. A poor, ugly, swollen Irish toad of a kid. He took another swig of his ale. This feeling sorry for yourself thing was getting easier by the minute.

 **June 24, 1919**

 **Luxury Flat, Dublin**

Tom was sulking. He knew it, Sybil knew it; he would be surprised if everyone in Dublin hadn't noticed the scowl on his face. The only one who seemed impervious to his mood was Sybil's granny Martha. This was the third flat she had dragged them to; the woman was tireless! And Sybil wasn't helping. He might have expected a little support from his loving wife, after all. Where was all that "You know I don't care about all that nonsense?" and "I want us to make it on our own" stuff when it counted?

What had happened to her? he fumed. She knew that none of the flats Martha had chosen were anywhere in the vicinity of affordable for them. They were located in the best part of town, in an area he had never even been to in his life. The first one had had four bedrooms and two baths, for God's sake! And the next two were nearly as dazzling. He did not want to be bought by the aristocracy, damn it, but that was where this was headed, for sure.

"Now, I think this might be the one," Martha was saying, as they took the lift to the third floor. Yep—the damn place had a lift!

"Mrs. Levinson," Tom tried again. "Sybil and I want to live simply, and we simply can't afford something like this on our salaries."

"Oh, pish! Didn't I make that clear? This is my wedding gift to you! You won't be paying for a bit of it!"

Tom ground his teeth, thinking of the reactions of his family and co-workers when they discovered his new address. He could feel his manhood draining away through his boots.

He looked at his wife in desperation, but she didn't notice. She and her granny were discussing some obscure aspect of the architecture that he didn't even understand, corbels and mouldings and whatever. He groaned. She must be having second thoughts about marrying so far beneath her, now that she had seen how her own kind lived in Dublin. He went to the huge window of the empty flat and pressed his nose against the pane. He was trapped.

A beer truck went by on the street below. Tom wished he had a beer…or two. Or three. Normally he wasn't much of a drinker, never having had the time or the money to spend in the pub, but at this moment he wanted nothing more than to drown himself in a pot of ale. The agony wouldn't last long, and he'd be rid of Sybil's granny. He would miss Sybil, but she'd be better off without him. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he was enjoying his misery too much to quit the exercise.

When Martha Levinson had arrived at the wedding party and announced that she'd be finding them the grandest flat in Dublin, he'd thought she was exaggerating. Besides, he had been preoccupied with other things that night. But then she'd shown up the next day and informed them that on Tuesday she would pick them up bright and early for their adventure.

No one seemed to resent this "gift" like he did; even Sybil seemed to think he was overreacting when he'd whined—all right, yes, he had whined— that he would feel like a kept man. Strangely, it was his new father-in-law who had offered the most support, before he had gone home to England.

"Listen, Tom," Lord Grantham had told him seriously, "I understand that you want to support Sybil on your own merits, and I admire that. I'll admit that I didn't always feel that way, but I've come to know you as an honorable man. And I know that is one of the things my daughter loves in you.

"Having said that, there is absolitely nothing you can do to stop a runaway train, and if you thought Violet was a juggernaught, you haven't seen anything like Cora's mother!"

He clapped Tom on the shoulder. "So give it up, and save your energy for a battle you can win."

Tom turned away from the window in time to hear Martha say, "So, this is it, I think! Not too far from the hospital and that place you work, Tom, and enough room for a family." She leered at them.

He looked at Sybil, saw her sparkling eyes. "Tom?" she said softly. "It is lovely, isn't it? Do you like it, even a little bit? It's all right if you don't, we'll find something else." What was he supposed to do, seeing the hope in her eyes?

"Sure, darlin," he said, his tone that of a man resigning himself to the gallows. "It's grand. Thank you so much, Mrs. Levinson."

She beamed at them. "Good. Now, I know you two have to go back to work, so I'll just take care of ordering the furniture you'll need to start. You must have a couch, chairs, a dining room, and of course the bed…"

"No!" Tom and Sybil exclaimed in unison. "We already have a bed!"

 **August 22, 1919**

 **London**

In any family with three children, there is a middle child, one who can feel lost in the shuffle and overlooked, and the result is often a lack of self-esteem. In the Crawley family that child was Edith. If she ever had children, she told herself, she would have one or two…or four. Never three. But considering her luck with men, that was unlikely anyway.

At the moment Lady Edith Crawley was staring at her reflection in the champagne glass in front of her, wishing the liquid was Guinness. At least the Edith in the glass looked bubbly, she thought. She glanced at the elegant gentleman sitting across the table from her at the Criterion and sighed. He looked bubbly too. In fact, he hadn't stopped bubbling since they had arrived. She wouldn't have been able to get a word in if she'd wanted to…which she didn't.

Her escort was a minor peer, a friend of a friend of Mary's, and Edith suspected that her sister knew right well how horrible he was. How could the man talk so much without taking a breath? This dinner had lasted a year at least already; she would soon know more about this pretentious ass than she knew about herself…or she would if she was listening to any of it.

She took another indelicate swig of the champagne and let her mind wander. Lord Pomposity would never notice, enthralled as he was in his description of the many hunt victories for which he was apparently famous. In her imagination she was driving around the track at Brooklands, her scarf blowing in the wind, leaving the other (all male) drivers in her dust.

Her racing suit, designed of course by herself, was the epitome of current fashion, perfectly matched to the green of her race car. Edith remembered having read somewhere that every country had its own racing colors, and Britain's was called British Racing Green. She looked good in green. It reminded her of Ireland.

Ireland. Her thoughts snapped back to June, to Sybil's wedding in Dublin and two of the most wonderful weeks of her life. The excitement, the danger, the _differentness_ of it all had intrigued her more than she had thought possible, and leaving had been painful. She missed her sister. She missed the music and the informality. She missed the local ale and the feeling of courage it gave her—a feeling that had dissipated as soon as the ferry had docked at Holyhead.

Back home in her own luxurious room, surrounded by wealth and privilege, she had begun fading, wilting again into the person she hated and feared. That petulant, whiny brat, the woman at every party who was destined to be a spinster and embraced her fate. The one who invited Mary's ridicule and spite because she deserved it.

In Ireland, Edith had blossomed. She had begun to think she could _do_ things, accomplish something with her life. She envied Tom his new job as a journalist and the joy it gave him. She applauded Sybil for her courage in seeking a position as a nurse in a country that hated people who spoke with her accent. She admired Tom's family for persevering when money was always scarce.

She knew that they struggled sometimes to make ends meet. Tom, usually the smartest person in any room, had been unable to go to university after his father died, instead entering service in order to help his family survive. His mother worked long hours as a seamstress in order to feed and clothe six children. They all pitched in; it was the way of life in working class Dublin.

Well, except for Patrick, currently unemployed. Edith's mouth curled upward in a rare smile at the thought of Tom's youngest brother. Such a funny boy; he'd kept her laughing during Sybil's wedding party, bantering with her as if she were the most interesting person he had ever met. Despite the myriad bruises and injuries that currently deformed his face and crippled his body, she suspected that he was as handsome as his older brothers, Tom and Michael, and he certainly had charm enough for all of them. There was just something about Patrick…

The smile disappeared. What was wrong with her? He had been kind to her because she was drinking alone at a party. Poor, pitiful Edith. He'd felt sorry for her; that was all it was. Patrick Branson was worlds apart from her in every way possible, and she was not Sybil, able to overlook that fact. Unlike her sister and their former chauffeur, she and Patrick had nothing at all in common. This meandering just showed how pathetic she'd become.

Besides, he was at least four years younger than she, a baby. She must seem like a faded maiden aunt to him. A sad, tired old biddy. And wouldn't Papa have apoplexy if he knew that another of his daughters had even been _thinking_ about someone named Branson? The very thought made her laugh out loud. She quickly took a gulp of her champagne to stifle the giggle and choked when it went down the wrong way, eyes watering.

Her escort narrowed his eyes at her. He didn't think he'd said anything particularly funny; why was she cackling and snorting in such an unladylike manner? Mary had told him that her sister was a bit dull but a good listener, and to be kind to her. She hadn't told him that Lady Edith was a tippler! He had tried, really. Maybe the discovery of his status and accomplishments was making her nervous. He didn't think this date was going to work out; she just didn't seem to appreciate who he was.

Edith was almost giddy with relief when Lord Peacock suggested an early end to the evening. She was busy planning and didn't have another minute to waste on this boor. Thoughts of Ireland had rekindled a spark that had nearly gone out, and she was desperate to fan the flame before she died of boredom. It was time to visit Sybil.

* * *

 **A/N:** It is no coincidence that the British racing colors reminded Edith of Ireland. In 1903 Britain won the right to host an international race. The problem was, Parliament had decreed that no car could exceed 12 mph, making motor racing illegal anywhere on the island. So the race had been moved to Ireland. Thereafter, England's color was British Racing Green, in tribute to the Emerald Isle.


	2. Touch of Madness

_If he waits for the ideal moment, he will never set off; he requires a touch of madness to take the next step. The warrior uses that touch of madness. For - in both love and war - it is impossible to foresee everything. -_ Paulo Coelho

 **August 26, 1919**

 **Dublin Docks**

The meeting had been going on for hours, and Michael Branson was tired. He had put in a full shift at the dockyard today, and had to be back early tomorrow morning for more of the same. Why couldn't the IRA just come to a decision and be done with it? Passion had its downside, and that was the truth.

He yawned and quickly covered it with a cough. This was no time to seem disrespectful. This meeting was important, and the reason it had dragged on so long was the need to make a statement, and right quick. He knew that the statement was going to involve violence, and he knew that this time he'd be sucked into it, despite his resolve.

Two months ago, after his brother Patrick had been mistaken for him and nearly killed, he had burned white hot with rage and the need for revenge. But then he had discovered that the perpetrators had not been the RIC as he had thought, but a renegade group of unionists from Ulster. He realized that he had nearly been guilty of the same wrongheadedness, had almost gone after the wrong people.

A conversation with his older brother Tom had made him rethink his motives and his thirst for immediate revenge. Tom was a newspaperman, and had always been much more level headed and patient than he was. His brother believed in the cause, wanted a free Ireland as much as he did, but he insisted that the way to achieve their goal was through discourse and diplomacy, not mindless violence. Michael had agreed not to take part in any missions that involved violence and destruction for its own sake, and he had held fast to that promise…until now.

But he had taken the Oath, and he believed in its veracity. And now the Royal Irish Constabulary, a fancy name for those bullies hired by the British Army to block the push for independence for Ireland, had made it personal. Now they had killed someone he knew.

Three nights ago, while he was sitting by his fireside reading a book, a young man had been shot at close range and left to die. Francis Murphy was not a stranger; not just another statistic in the guerilla warfare that was the Irish struggle for independence. His uncle was Colum, owner of Murphy's Pub and a close friend to the Branson family.

Colum _was_ family, really, more like a surrogate father than a friend. He had protected more than one Branson sibling from the follies of youth and stupidity upon occasion, and usually kept their exploits from their mother, Claire. Tom had held his wedding party at Murphy's. Michael's fiery sister Maire now worked at the pub as a waitress, and everyone was breathing more easily knowing that Colum had her under his watchful eye.

Colum Murphy was quiet and soft-spoken, and like a good barkeep he let his customers do the talking. But those who knew him well understood that under the humble demeanor beat the heart of a staunch republican. Many of his customers were members of the IRA, as the Irish Volunteers were now calling themselves, and he had no problem passing on information that would benefit the cause.

But Francis Murphy had been only fifteen years old, a studious lad who had wanted to go to university and become a doctor. He had kept to himself, eschewing politics for the joy of his books. Now this brilliant boy would never realize his potential, and the world would suffer as a result. All because the British Army treated the Irish like second-class citizens, and peopled its regiments with trigger-happy fools who thought that every male over the age of ten must be an IRA militant. Better to shoot first and ask questions later, was their mantra.

Colum was devastated. He had closed the pub and avoided contact with everyone…everyone except for Claire Branson, who had refused to be shut out when someone needed her. She and Michael's oldest sister Bernadette were keeping him supplied with food and solace. They were helping Francis's mother with the funeral arrangements as well, because that was what you did for family.

"Branson!" Michael started and returned his attention to the meeting. There was bound to be a retaliation, and he was very much afraid that he was going to be breaking his promise to Tom. His brother might even understand; after all, he loved Colum too.

 **September 9, 1919**

 **The Branson Flat**

"Aren't you coming to bed?"

Tom Branson turned from the desk to look at the naked vision in his bed. Why the hell wasn't he already in that bed? There was nowhere on God's earth he'd rather be, and nothing he'd rather be doing than making love to his wife.

But unfortunately, God's earth contained a lovely little island called Ireland, and at the moment this small patch of land was giving him no small amount of stress. The British government was upping the ante on the war, looting and burning commercial buildings in town in retaliation for IRA strikes which just two days ago had netted them fifteen rifles and killed a British soldier in the process. And just yesterday, the Dáil Éireann had been outlawed. Like that mattered. It was like poking a hornet's nest with a stick.

Would this guerilla warfare never end? Tom wondered. His paper trusted him to keep abreast of the almost daily attacks and report on incursions by both sides, but he did have another life, too. And a wife to bed…

"Ah, feck!" He threw down the papers and stripped off his clothes. With a running leap, he landed in the huge bed and rolled on top of Sybil, who shrieked and tried to tunnel under the covers.

"Oh, no, you don't!" whooped Tom, going after her and dragging her out by a small foot. "You asked for this. Whinging and crying, never giving a man a moment's peace. I know what you want!"

"Oh, do you? Well, I think I've changed my mind. I don't much like your attitude!" Her bold statement was ruined by the giggles that she tried without success to suppress, and after a moment she gave up and began to kiss her way up his arm. She knew exactly where his weak spots were, and took full advantage of her power over him. He fought valiently, which is to say not at all, and soon the bed was being given another test of its strength and resilience.

It _was_ a very good bed. They had bought it in a second hand shop a few days before their wedding, and at the time the primary condition of purchase was that it not squeak, as they were still staying with Tom's family until they found a flat. Since it received by far the most attention of any item of furniture or appliance they owned, they had been quite thankful that they had spent most of their savings on it. It was their first purchase as a couple, meant to stand the test of time…and other things.

Granny Martha had tried to bulldoze them into accepting a new bed to go with this ridiculously luxurious flat that was her wedding present, and Martha was used to getting her way, but on this the Bransons had stood firm. Tom had given in on their living quarters, but there were just some things that were not negotiable. And his wife had agreed. The flat was just a space, after all. He would have lived in a cardboard box if he had to, to be with Sybil.

Tom rolled over onto his side, facing his wife. Looking into her beautiful eyes, he still couldn't believe that he had won this prize, that a woman raised in the lap of the aristocracy was content to spend her nights wrapped in his arms in an old bed in Dublin. But here she was, and the look in those eyes told him that she was more than content. Much more.

"What are you thinking?" asked Sybil.

"Oh, just that Ireland is falling apart at the seams, getting more violent every day, and when I'm with you, I just don't care. If this was to be my last day on earth, I'd be happy if I could spend it right here, as long as you were with me. You are my life, mo chroi."

Sybil sighed, her eyes misting. What was it about the Irish that everything they said sounded like music, she wondered. Or was it just _her_ Irishman? She turned over and moved into him, and as his arms came around her she felt his words engrave themselves on her soul, and knew that it didn't matter where they were, as long as it was together.

But preferably in this bed, she thought with a smile, as she drifted off to sleep.

 **September 13, 1919**

 **Murphy's Pub**

Maire had been as surprised as anyone when Colum had agreed to give her a job. She seemed to attract trouble without trying, and often acted impulsively without regard for the consequences. An escapade back in June had nearly gotten her sister-in-law killed, and for awhile she'd been banned from the pub altogether.

But Colum had a soft spot for Maire. He'd told her once that she reminded him of his sister Nell, feisty and pretty and mischievous. And last month he had offered her a job as a server in his pub, telling her with a wink that he'd feel better with her inside the place with his eye on her than outside doing God knows what. He was only half joking.

Maire had been an immediate success. She _was_ feisty, with a devilish sense of humor, and she had the Branson good looks in abundance, which turned out to be an added benefit with the male customers. At first Colum was a bit concerned about her popularity, but he needn't have worried. Maire was kind and funny, but there was something about Colum's new waitress that warned her customers not to get too close.

Maire Branson did not trust men—at least, not romantically. Growing up with overprotective brothers, she had had little experience in the art of flirting and courtship. She had reached the ripe old age of twenty-one without having had a serious relationship. Then back in June she had met an attractive man who had treated her like a woman, and had thoroughly enjoyed the new feeling…until he turned out to be a militant from Northern Ireland who was using her to get at her family.

The experience had left her ashamed and afraid. Ashamed that her stupidity had put the people she loved at risk, and afraid to put her faith in any man, ever again. The moment a pair of male eyes lit on her long chestnut hair and snapping blue eyes with appreciation, Maire backed off. Men soon learned that if they wanted this lovely girl to be nice to them, they'd better skip the flirting. Colum was quite pleased; it made his job easier if he didn't have to beat his customers off.

He would not have been so pleased had he known that Maire had begun to use her job to collect information for her brother Michael. No one was turned away at Murphy's, and English soldiers and the RIC often came into the pub. They never realized how much distrust and hatred seethed under the surface, or how fervently their lovely server wanted to pour their Guinness over their heads. It would have been a waste of good beer, though. So instead, as she went about her job, she listened.

No one paid attention to a barmaid wiping the table next to them. They would have been surprised to learn that this particular barmaid was an avowed republican and a supporter of the Irish Republican Army, and that many of the things that were said over that third cup of ale went straight back to Michael and his fellow soldiers.

It was convenient that Maire and Michael still lived at home; it made the passing of information easier. But if Mam had known that once in a while she visited him at the docks when a message was critical, Maire wouldn't put anything past her mother for punishment. Mam wasn't above using the broom to make her point; her age wouldn't matter a bit.

Tom and Sybil did not know about Maire's side activity; the truth was, she was afraid her older brother would be disappointed in her for taking such risks, and she couldn't stand it when he was angry with her. Besides, she didn't trust him not to tell Mam "for her own good". Kathleen didn't know, either, nor did Patrick. It was safer if she kept it as her secret…hers and Michael's.

As Maire wiped down the tables at Murphy's Pub, she reflected on what she had just heard at the table in the back. It might be important; it definitely justified a trip to the docks. She sometimes wondered if she were possessed by a touch of madness, to be putting herself at risk like this…but she knew she wouldn't stop. Not as long as there was a chance it helped.

Colum barely blinked when she asked him if she could leave a bit early, but the British officer seated at a table across the room took notice of her abrupt exit. He looked at the table the pretty barmaid had been wiping down for a rather long time, and then at the one next to it where some of his fellow soldiers were drinking and talking a bit too loudly, and he wondered. Lieutenant Robert Martin decided that he might want to spend a little more time at Murphy's Pub in the future.

 **September 19, 1919**

 **Johnson Mooney and O'Brien Bakery, Dublin**

Deaglan Collins was going to get fat, if he kept buying cakes every other day from Mooney's. His mother and sisters were beginning to wonder where all the pastries were coming from, and if they ever found out his secret, the teasing would never end. He was spending his hard earned money just to be near a girl who didn't know he was alive.

It was pitiful, really. The girl hardly noticed him as she packaged up his purchases. She smiled at him like she smiled at every other customer. He wanted her to smile at _him,_ see him. Did she even know how beautiful she was? Her long blonde hair cascaded down over her slender shoulders like a waterfall, and her aquamarine eyes glowed in a face that should have been in pictures, instead of a bakery in Dublin. Oh, Lord, if he didn't get a grip he was going to start writing poetry!

Kathleen Branson smoothed her hair and smiled to herself as the handsome lad left the store with his bag of oatcakes. That was the third time this week, she thought; he must have a girlfriend with a sweet tooth. She didn't mind his coming in so often, to tell the truth. He was very handsome, and it didn't hurt to look, did it? His hair was so dark it was almost black, and his eyes the blue of the Irish Sea. She loved how they sparkled when he smiled. Goodness! Since her nineteenth birthday last month, she was turning into a simpering idiot. If she kept thinking like this, she'd soon be slipping him love notes with his pastry!

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Dáil Éireann - doyl + air + uhn

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Mo chroi (my love) - muh+ khree

* * *

 **A/N:** On August 23, Francis Murphy, aged 15, was shot by British soldiers as he sat by the fire reading a book. An inquest found the military responsible, but they denied involvement. As far as I know, Francis did not have an uncle named Colum. But he might have.


	3. A Savage Joy

_Only a fool wants war, but once a war starts then it cannot be fought half-heartedly. It cannot even be fought with regret, but must be waged with a savage joy in defeating the enemy… -_ Bernard Cornwell

 **September 26, 1919**

 **Murphy's Pub**

Sybil leaned over the counter and said in a stage whisper, "Your new barmaid is a bit crazy, Colum. "I hope you have her on a short leash."

"Hey!" sputtered Tom. "That's my sister!"

"Exactly," said Sybil, leaning back on her stool. "All the Bransons are a bit mad," she continued in a solemn tone. "At least that's what I've heard." She gave up her attempt at a straight face and smiled with fondness at her sister-in-law. "And Maire's the top of the crazy heap."

"Well," said Tom. "There is that."

"I can hear you!" Maire came over, laughing. "And _I'm_ not the Branson who married a posh, stuck-up English aristocrat, now am I?"

"Well," her brother said, getting into the spirit. He gave an exaggerated look around the pub. "You never know, darlin'. There are a lot of nice-looking English soldiers round here these days. You might fancy one of them!"

Maire turned pale, and then red-faced. Tom had gone too far, as usual.

"Hear me, you!" His sister stabbed a finger at him. "You will _never_ see me within a mile of an English soldier," she hissed, "except to deliver its beer! Ever!" And she stalked away, head held high, long hair swinging. As she reached the far end of the room, she spun round again. "Never!" She delivered a round of Guinness to a table of British soldiers, her smile bright and insincere.

Tom was bent over, laughing. It had always been way too easy to send Maire off the ledge. From the time she'd been a tiny curly haired toddler, all her siblings had made it a game to see who could get the little vein in her temple to pop out. Even Bernadette had participated in that one…it was just so much fun. But to be fair, the English soldier comment might have crossed the line, given her overwhelming affection for the species. He tried, without much success, to rein in his mirth. She'd pay him back; no doubt of that. Matter of time.

Sybil was shaking her head at him. "How do you lot do that and get away with it?" She really had never seen anything like it. She and her sisters could never have talked to each other like that. Mary didn't tease; she jabbed, and it was nearly always mean and meant to wound. Her usual target was Edith, and she was never happy until her middle sister was in tears. Neither of them ever teased Sybil, because they both loved her and needed her to referee their battles. So, no good-natured banter in the Crawley household. How different Tom's family was from hers! And thank God she had found them before her own siblings had driven her insane!

"You're right," Tom gave her a contrite look that she didn't trust for a minute. "I shouldn't have done that. You're the only Brit Maire can tolerate, and look how hard you had to work to win her over. It's lucky she doesn't have to deal with any more of you!"

"Well," Sybil gave him a deceptively innocent look. "I'm not too sure about that. I had some news today that might change the balance a bit. She paused for dramatic effect, leaned over and kissed him, and whispered in his ear, "Edith's coming next week, and it sounds as if she plans on staying for a while. She'll be in the second bedroom."

Tom choked on his beer, and Sybil patted him on the back. He pulled himself together and mustered a weak smile. He loved his sister-in-law, really he did. He just didn't love the idea of having her right next door to their bedroom…for _a while._

 **September 28, 1919**

 **Building Site, Dublin**

Daniel Ryan stood in the doorway of the half-finished house and watched his brother-in-law handle the plane. To tell the truth, he'd never have thought Patrick had what it took to work construction. He'd really never seen the boy labor so hard before…or much at all, to be honest. He'd always seemed such a happy go lucky kid who tended to take the "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" mantra a little too seriously. Daniel had been hesitant to give him a job on his crew after his injuries had healed, worried that he'd have to fire his wife's baby brother when he proved unsuitable, but Patrick was proving him wrong.

All his in-laws had surprised him, now that he thought about it. When he'd married Bernadette five years ago, Daniel had already been thirty years old. Even before he had become one in reality, he'd always felt more like a father than a brother to his wife's siblings. He loved them all with everything he had, but Jaysus, sometimes they could drive a man to drink!

They were all so different. Bern was the ideal wife, sweet and reserved and devoted to her husband and their two children. She wanted to be exactly the kind of mother her own Mam was, and Daniel thought she was well on her way. He knew that she was often frustrated with her younger brothers and sisters; no republican, she didn't much care who ran Ireland as long as her husband and children were safe, and this damn war was interfering with her peace of mind on that score.

Michael was just the opposite. He tended to think with his heart rather than his head, and had let his passion pull him to the IRA and a life frought with danger. But it was his choice, and Daniel couldn't fault him his love for Ireland and the desire to see her free from English rule. He could, and did, fault him for going off the handle and letting his temper get the best of him at times, but since that trouble back in June he had setted down some. Maybe he was finally growing up.

Michael and Maire should have been twins, he mused, at least in temperament and hard-headedness. Both of them tended to act before they thought of the consequences, and he was surprised that Maire hadn't gotten into serious trouble yet, like the kind that had almost gotten Patrick killed. She had tried to rein in her passionate hatred of all things English a bit, for Sybil's sake, and since Tom and Sybil's wedding there had been relative peace in the house. He didn't hold out much hope that it would last.

And then there was Kathleen, the baby, who had just turned nineteen. Generous and giving, on the surface she seemed the sweetest and most docile of them all, but there was a streak of mischief running through that little minx that only came out when she really got to know someone and trust them. Bernadette watched her like a hawk at the bakery where they worked, so she'd be all right.

Tom he knew least of all of them. The second oldest Branson had been off working in service in England when his older sister married Daniel. He hadn't even met Tom until last June when the lad had shocked them all by bringing Sybil home like a pedigreed kitten he had found and wanted to keep. And keep her he had.

Daniel smiled at the thought of Sybil. He had warmed to her much more quickly than Bernadette had, but then he was a man, with red blood and all, and Sybil had been such a delightful surprise. No airs at all; she had pitched right in, learning to cook and clean…well, clean, at least…the cooking was still a work in progress. And she was a worker. She had defied her family to become a nurse, and then topped that feat off by running away with their chauffeur to Ireland. He shook his head. She fit right in with this bunch of lunatics.

"Dan, come here!" Daniel's workman's heart lifted at the eagerness in his young apprentice's voice, and he crossed to have a look at Patrick's project. It was a bookcase, which when finished would be built into the wall…and it was simply beautiful. Patrick had planed the wood to a smooth sheen and then carved an intricate vine motif into the cornice. Why, the lad was an artist! Who knew?

"Pat," he said in surprise, "that's awfully good! You have a real talent for woodworking, m' lad!" He ran his hand over the smooth surface. "Where did you see this design?"

"In my head," Patrick answered with a happy grin. He knew he was just learning and shouldn't get too full of himself, but he felt warmed by the sincere look of appreciation on Daniel's face…and the piece _was_ good. Truthfully, the wood had just seemed to _sing_ to him, to tell him what it wanted to be, and it had come alive under his fingers. Those fingers itched now to get back to his task, and he chuckled to himself. He couldn't remember when he had felt so happy; who would ever have guessed it would come from _working?!_

 **September 30, 1919**

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England**

"No, Anna, not that one! I'm not going to any balls!" The maid removed the offending garment from the trunk, and hung it up in the wardrobe with all the other rejected gowns. Anna had accompanied the family in June when they'd gone to Dublin for Sybil's wedding, but she wasn't going this time. No, Lady Edith was traveling alone, against the advice of her family. And judging from the size of the trunk, she wasn't coming back any time soon.

She had come home from an evening out about a month ago and announced that she was going to visit Sybil, and it was not necessary for anyone—including a maid—to accompany her. Of course, Lady Grantham had been against it, and Lord Grantham had tried to forbid her, but Edith was adamant…and she didn't need anyone's permission. She was a grown woman, she told them, and if Sybil could do it, so could she.

But at least Sybil had been with Mr. Branson, thought Anna. Edith would have no one, and there was a war going on in Ireland. On the other hand, Edith wasn't running away to _marry_ anyone, so maybe that's why her family had given in so easily. They never seemed to worry much about Lady Edith…not like Lady Mary, who never went anywhere without at least a lady's maid. Funny thing about that. Lady Mary was much more confident than her sister; no one would have the nerve to give _her_ trouble. Yet here was Lady Edith, the timid one, haring off to another country all by herself! Anna shook her head; aristocrats were a funny lot.

Edith too was wondering about this decision, made in the stifling grip of boredom on a hot night in August. Perhaps this was a mistake, perhaps she had truly gone mad this time. The only thing that kept her from changing her mind and hiding out in her bedroom was that she would be doing just that, if she stayed here—hiding out. And she was tired of being invisible.

She shook herself out of her thoughts before they could spiral down into depression. "Anna," she said, pasting a bright smile on her face, "what I really need for you to do is teach me how to do my own hair. Something very simple."

It would have to be simple. There would be no hairdresser in Dublin; she was staying with Sybil and Tom. They had insisted that she move into one of their extra bedrooms for her visit—no, no, Sybil had exclaimed, she would not be putting them out, they were delighted to have her. Edith snorted. Of course they would be delighted to have her underfoot…what newlyweds wouldn't want an old maiden aunt hanging about while they explored their new life together?

But what her sister and brother-in-law didn't know was that she wouldn't be underfoot forever; she would be moving out as soon as she found a flat of her own. And a job. She hadn't told anyone, and she wasn't going to. Not yet. It was her secret, and hers alone, because she wasn't sure she had the courage to do it…but Edith Crawley was thinking of staying in Ireland.

 **October 3, 1919**

 **Dublin Docks**

"It's going to be big, Michael!" Maire's voice was low, urgent.

"Okay, Maire, tell me again." Michael hated it when his sister sought him out at the docks. It was no place for a woman at the best of times, and this was not the best of times. Maybe there would _be_ no best of times for Ireland, ever again.

He shook himself to dispel the feelings of gloom and foreboding. Maire had been valuable to the cause, he'd admit, bringing him information overheard at the pub by British soldiers in their cups. Besides, there was no stopping his wayward sister when her mind was set. He just hoped she was being careful. This was war, and soldiers were no kinder to a beautiful woman than they were to any other republican when they felt threatened. He worried, all the time.

"Remember what happened in Fermoy?" Maire was almost shaking with excitement. "The looting and burning? They're talking of trying it here next, in Dublin!" She went on to give her brother the details she had heard this time at the pub.

Michael watched his sister go, wondering how they'd gotten to this place. He had been so proud back in June, when he'd taken the oath and joined the Irish Volunteers, soon to become the Irish Republican Army. When Sinn Féin had won a landslide victory way back in the winter, they had put in a new republican government, Dáil Éireann, and declared Ireland to be independent from Britain. Everything had been new and glorious, and he had been so proud to be an Irishman.

But of course it hadn't been that easy. England was not about to just pack up and go away. The British Army was using the Royal Irish Constabulary as their military arm in Ireland, and the republicans retaliated by attacking RIC barracks and stealing weapons. Since most of the RIC were Irishmen themselves, they found themselves reviled and condemned in their own country. They were ambushed in small groups or in pairs, on patrol or going to church, and they fought back viciously. Republicans were imprisoned by the dozens, often for little or no reason.

The war was escalating, and innocent citizens were often caught up in the violence, as Patrick had been back in June. Most of the time, no one seemed to be winning. The glory had long since faded, but the determination was as fierce as ever. The Irish Republican Army would fight, for as long as it took. There was a savage joy in battle, in the compulsion to fight until the enemy was driven out or they destroyed themselves in the trying.

Michael remembered Tom telling him that war was a vicious cycle, that the bloodshed just went round and round like a snake eating its own tail. But he had to believe that his oath meant something. He had to believe that it was worth dying for. He just didn't believe that it was worth his sister getting hurt. He could never accept that. He was going to have to tell her to stop; it was getting too dangerous.

As Michael turned back into the docks, a man in the uniform of the British Army stepped out of the shadows across from where he and Maire had met. As Lieutenant Robert Martin walked away towards his barracks, he reflected on what he had seen. His instincts were good, and they were telling him that something was going on here. Martin didn't recognize the man she had been talking to…but it was hard to forget the pretty barmaid from Murphy's Pub.

* * *

 **A/N:** In December 1918, Sinn Fein won a landslide vote in the General Election and declared an Irish Republic. The first republican parliament, the Dáil Éireann, met on January 21, 1919 and adopted a Declaration Of Independence. The same day, Irish Volunteers (soon to be IRA) killed two Royal Irish Constables in Tipperary, beginning the guerrilla war known as the Irish War Of Independence.

On September 7, 1919, the British government began a policy of reprisals for IRA attacks by looting and burning buildings in Fermoy, County Cork. There is no historical record of any plan to do the same in Dublin, as reported by Maire Branson, but she has been known to get fired up and exaggerate.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Dáil Éireann - doyl + air + uhn

Maire - my + ra

Sinn Féin - shin + fane


	4. New Horizons

_You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore. -_ William Faulkner

 **October 4, 1919**

 **Irish Sea**

Edith stood by the rail of the _Cambria,_ watching her native land recede and wondering if she had truly lost her mind. The wind was brisk and the spray churned up by the choppy waters of the Irish Sea froze as it hit her face, but she did not notice. Nor did she notice that she was one of the few passengers who had braved the October cold to come up on deck and bid England goodbye. She liked it that way. Edith was often alone, and she had come to think of solitude as her friend. It did not judge; it allowed her room for her thoughts. And right now her thoughts were hardly presentable.

Her heart felt tight, as if it were too large for her chest. It hammered against her rib cage, threatening to burst out and read her the riot act. 'What were you thinking?' it demanded. 'I'm not safe here! I could be hurt!' Her mind was a mass of twisting snakes, coiling and hissing in disapproval. Her stomach…

Edith abruptly bent over the rail and lost the contents of said stomach. Well, now she knew where that part of her anatomy stood on the subject of this trip! Her entire body stood firmly in the "don't go to Ireland" camp.

And then a small voice in her mind struggled its way to the surface. It was calm, quiet, and it stilled the clamor of the other voices, shaming them for their fear and cowardice.

'You were not meant to waste away in that huge manor. It was not you. You were meant to experience things, to see the world. You are allowed to be happy. You are allowed to _live.'_

Edith smiled. With a last look, she turned away from the rail to walk to the front of the ferry. A large lump of land, still just a mass of grey on the horizon, was growing larger. It called to her, telling her that it was real, and beautiful, and waiting. Have courage, it said. I am the new horizon that you have been seeking. Remember me? I am Ireland.

The feeling of calm lasted until the ferry bumped against the pier. The jolt brought all the misgivings up again, paralyzing her where she stood in the queue waiting to disembark.

"Excuse me, miss, the queue is moving," said an impatient Irish voice behind her. "Are you planning to get off?"

"No!" she heard herself say, and then, "Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

"Well, then, you should consider moving forward. With your feet." Titters arose at the speaker's wit, and Edith flushed.

"You go ahead; I have to check on my trunk," she said, as she stepped out of the queue. A member of the crew, overhearing, came over.

"Your trunk is already ashore, Miss. "It's safe. Come now, you can't stand here."

Like a child, Edith let herself be guided back into line, feeling herself go numb as she was pushed forward by the crowd eager to disembark. This is what always happens, she thought in despair. I always let myself be pushed along, whether I want to go there or not. Tears gathered behind her lashes and threatened to overflow. Nothing ever changed. It probably never would.

She sighed, trying to remember that she was a Crawley, straightening her posture as she had been taught by innumerable governesses. She moved to the head of the gangplank, eyes locked forward as if she were going to her execution. Edith remembered an outing when she had been about eight and Mama had taken all three girls to London to see JM Barrie's new play, _Peter Pan._ She'd been so frightened for Wendy when Captain Hook had almost made her walk the plank.

Well, Wendy, my girl, she thought, I finally know how you felt. Only, there would be no little green-cloaked boy to fly in and rescue Lady Edith Crawley. She was on her own. The only thing that kept her going forward down that gangway was the thought of returning to England, a failure. Going back to Mary's sniping and the stultifying life laid out for her there. No! she thought. She was _not_ going back. She was going to have an adventure.

As she reached the quayside, Edith saw that the wharf was thronged with people and motor cars. First class passengers like herself had been disembarked first, and many were being met by well-dressed ladies and gentlemen and hustled into luxurious motors. She couldn't see Sybil or Tom anywhere.

"Lady Edith?" An Irish voice, like Tom's but with a bit more of a lilt, like Tom's would be if he hadn't spent six years in England. She turned to find herself gazing upon the most gorgeous man she had ever seen in her life. Impossibly blue eyes twinkled at her out of a face that belonged on a cathedral fresco. Blond hair fell carelessly across his forehead, and the smile he bestowed on her took her breath away. She felt her heart skip and her stomach flutter. Was he actually talking to _her_? She had never seen this man before, and yet something about him seemed familiar.

"Don't you remember me?" he asked. "I guess I _was_ a pretty picture at the wedding, with the bruises and swelling and all. I'm Patrick."

 **October 5, 1919**

 **Mater Misericordiae Hospital, Dublin**

Sybil wiped her face with the corner of her apron and sighed. Why did things always seem to happen at once? First, she'd burned the toast again this morning, when she had been trying so hard to impress Edith on the first day of her visit. Tom, bless him, was becoming adept at pretending he liked his toast black. Then she'd nearly missed the tram, which would have made her look incompetent to Dr. Walsh, whom she adored. And now, as soon as she'd gotten in to work, the war had come to call.

The war this time took the form of a small boy with a fractured kneecap. Small boys frequently came in to the hospital with broken bones, but it wasn't usually because they'd been shot.

She stood in the quiet hospital room, so far removed from the horrors of men who were trying to kill each other in the name of God and country, and stared at the small figure in the bed. His eyes were closed, dark circles that should never have existed in one so young exposed under his stubby blond eyelashes. He couldn't be more than twelve years old, she thought in sudden anger. More than four years of nursing injuries that could shrink the heart, and she was still appalled by the evidence of man's inhumanity to his fellow man.

She had been told that this lad had been caught in a shooting at Thurles racetrack yesterday…a murder, actually. Two IRA soldiers had followed DI Michael Hunt, chief intelligence officer for the district, and fired two rounds at close range, killing him instantly. The third bullet had gone into the crowd, striking the child in the kneecap. She shook her head; the violence on both sides was becoming so commonplace that it attracted spectators, and sometimes the innocent suffered for their curiosity. But a child!

"Mum?" a small voice spoke from the bed. "Where am I?" Sybil crossed and took his hand in her own. It was a tiny hand, covered by thin, blue-veined flesh that would seem more at home on the hand of an aged person than a child. Poverty. She wonderd how often the child had a decent meal.

"You're in Dublin, in the hospital, dear. We're going to take really good care of you."

"Did they gi' me ma breeches?" the boy demanded in a panicked voice.

Of all the questions she had been asked by patients, this one ranked right up there with the weirdest. Breeches?

"I-I'm not sure." Sybil squeezed his hand. "I'll check."

"They was gonna gi' me new breeches!" The child began to cry, deep gulping sobs shaking his small frame. " _Two_ pair! I saw 'em! The Brits was gonna gi' me two pair o' new breeches for m'old ones, and m' brothers wouldn't let them! I never had new breeches before, and they was gonna gi' me _two_ pair!" He clenched his fists in impotent rage, leaving Sybil shaking her head in confusion.

What was he going on about? This child had been _shot;_ he was going to need surgery if he were ever to walk again, and all he cared about was _breeches_?

She leaned down and whispered in the lad's ear, stroking the long scraggly hair away from his face. "You'll get your breeches, darling. I promise. Now, what's your name?"

"D-Danny, mum. Danny Maher."

Sybil had never met a male patient who could resist her, and this one was no different. His wails subsided into sniffles and he clutched her hand. By the time she had taken his vital signs and left the room, a pair of wide, adoring eyes following her out the door, she had added another heart to her collection.

That evening, over a dinner of under-cooked potatoes and charred bacon, Sybil told Tom the story of Danny Maher and the breeches.

"Seems Danny's brothers were carrying him to the Dublin train because the doctor couldn't remove the bullet and he needed an x-ray at the Mater. When his father and some of his uncles got him to the station, the RIC were waiting, demanding that Danny's bloody breeches with the bullet hole be surrendered as evidence.

Tom took a break from gnawing at his potato and asked, "But he'd be half naked, wouldn't he?"

"Exactly. How are your potatoes, darling?"

"Mmmph, oh, grand, they are."

Sybil pinned him with a suspicious glare, and then went on. "Anyway, there was a stand-off while the RIC discussed whether it was right to strip a child of his short pants, and eventually one of the officers was sent away to buy him a new pair of breeches. He came back with two."

"So all's well that ends well," said Tom. "Poor kid probably only had the one pair to his name, before."

"But that's just it!" said Sybil. "The stubborn uncles refused to back down and give them Danny's ruined pants, so the constables eventually let him keep them and go on his way. Poor kid had to watch his new breeches disappear from sight as the train pulled away. He's devastated. Sometimes you Irish are so hard-headed!"

Tom, whose wife was the most hard-headed woman he'd ever known, deemed it wise to keep his counsel, and continued to crunch his bacon.

"Well, he ventured finally, "that's a real shame."

"Not really, darling," his wife answered with a serene smile. "We're buying him two pairs of breeches."

 **October 6, 1919**

 **Murphy's Pub**

Evan Langdon sat with his chin cupped in his hands, staring. He knew he was staring, knew it was inappropriate, but he couldn't help it. The girl was just so lovely! Evan had been haunting Murphy's every time he could get away from his duties at the barracks, after the first time when some of his friends had told him that the beer here was great and the proprietor treated soldiers better than most in Dublin.

The barkeep might have treated British soldiers fairly, but the same couldn't be said for his beautiful barmaid. She didn't go so far as to insult them, but she made her feelings evident enough. I'm Irish, her tight lips said as she took their orders. We don't want your kind here, her brilliant blue eyes announced as she plunked their orders down with a little more force than necessary and flounced away, her long chestnut hair flying.

Evan knew he didn't stand a chance with her. He was everything she so obviously hated, and he understood. He had been posted here to help keep Ireland safe, according to the recruiters. That was the reason he had joined the army in the first place—to fight the Great War, to keep the world safe. His mind cringed at his naiveté.

Evan Langdon was one of history's misfits—a soldier who was an idealist. He had been training to be a doctor back home in Cornwall, working long hours and volunteering at the local hospital when he could. He would have been content to continue an academic life…until his younger brother enlisted in the army and went off to France. George was killed in the first months of the fighting, one of the nameless thousands who bled out their young lives on the fields of the Somne. The day Evan got the news he put his books away and joined up, determined to make his brother's sacrifice mean something.

And he had. He had joined the medical corps and worked in the field hospital, sometimes driving the ambulance that picked up the injured on the battlefield. Every one of those men might have been his brother, he thought, and he wasn't leaving one of them behind. It was dangerous but useful work, and he'd gotten a reputation as a man who could be counted on, someone who had his comrades' backs when the going got rough. When the war ended, he had stayed on. He had seen too much to go back to his books and his sleepy little village. He believed in his country and in her army.

And then he'd been posted to Ireland. The Irish were being victimized by radicals, vicious criminals who vandalized their own people and killed for the pure enjoyment of it, his superiors said. The Irish people would welcome the British army, he was assured—maybe not at first but when they came to understand how much Britain could do for their battered country.

He should have known better, of course. He was a scholar; he'd read about the way the Irish had been treated by his country during the potato famine less than a hundred years before. What made him think attitudes on either side would have changed since then? What had his countrymen done to change them? Most of his fellow soldiers looked down on the people of this beautiful island, considered them inferior creatures who deserved little respect. And the Irish looked back with unconcealed hatred.

As for the so-called radicals—the IRA—he had seen no evidence of wanton destruction or cruelty to their own people—quite the contrary. In his opinion they were patriots, pushed to the limits of their endurance and fueled by pride in their culture, their language and their fervent desire to be left alone to run their own country. They were fighting for their very existence as Irishmen. He rather admired them.

Of course, he could say nothing of these thoughts to his fellow soldiers. He kept to himself and went about his duties, but he kept his eyes open. And he hated what he saw. When his tour of duty was up, he was leaving Ireland and the army. It had soured for him and he was through. He would go back to Cornwall, finish his training, and become a doctor.

But that was before he had seen the true beauty of Ireland, in the person of one feisty barmaid at Murphy's Pub. Now he was not so sure about leaving. He wished he was just another bloke who was free to talk with her, get her name, earn that wonderful smile she awarded the locals who teased and flirted with her. She never got too close, even with them, but at least she gave them the time of day. He would never get that, not so long as he wore this uniform and spoke with a British accent.

He sighed, and put his chin in his hands again. A man could dream though, couldn't he?

Maire bustled from table to table, seemingly unaware of the scrutiny from the young man at the corner table. But she was female, and a girl always knows when she's being watched. She sneaked a look out of the corner of her eye. Yes, he was staring at her. Again. Damn British lout! He was in here an awful lot, usually by himself. And he was polite, she had to admit that. And actually quite handsome—for a Brit. When she thumped his beer down in front of him, he ignored the hostility and thanked her softly, always giving her a smile to answer her frown. He had a lovely smile, and his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when…

Jaysus! What was wrong with her! He was the enemy! She had no business noticing his eyes, or his smile. She shook herself, remembering the last time she had fallen for a nice-looking face and a charming smile, and hardened her heart. He was a man, and he was British. That was enough to damn him to eternity in her book.

* * *

 **A/N:** In December of 1904, JM Barrie premiered his new stage play, _Peter Pan, or the Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up,_ in London. The story of the baby who fell out of his pram and flew off to NeverLand to live among pirates, mermaids, fairies, Indians and lost boys became an instant sensation, and Barrie later adapted his play into a novel, published in 1911 as _Peter and Wendy._ Edith Crawley and her sisters might very well have attended the play as children.

The story of Danny Maher and the breeches is true, although it happened four months earlier than in this story. It was reported in the _Irish Times_ as one of the most bizarre stand-offs of the Irish War of Independence. And Danny was indeed treated at the Mater. Personally, I'd like to think Sybil was his nurse!

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Maire - my + ra


	5. Moment of Change

_I've come to believe that in everyone's life, there's one undeniable moment of change, a set of circumstances that suddenly alters everything. -_ Nicholas Sparks

 **November 5, 1919**

 **The Branson Flat**

Edith lay in her bed, listening to the early morning activity in the flat. Tom and Sybil were bustling around, getting ready for work, laughing and teasing each other. She sniffed. Sybil had burned the toast again. Her sister was such a quick study at important things like suturing a wound or delivering a baby, but for some reason she continued to struggle at mundane tasks like cooking. Not that she herself would know the first thing about how to make toast, she snorted.

The Crawley girls had been raised to marry peers and have children. Good posture and the ability to direct servants had been the defining characteristics of their education; small wonder that her sister was struggling. But she never gave up, never lost faith that one day she would serve Tom a three course dinner fit for a king with her own little hands. Not for the first time, Edith marveled at her sister's tenacity and unflagging hopefulness.

Of course, it helped that her husband was such a good actor. Tom pretended that every attempt was a major achievement, every piece of charred carbon just the way he liked it. Of course Sybil knew he was lying through his teeth, and she probably knew that he took lunch at the pub more often than necessary, but she appreciated the effort and loved him the more for his deceit. Those two had rose colored glasses affixed to their faces; they were so much in love that Edith didn't know how much longer she would be able to stand the happiness.

She had been here a month, and she no longer worried about being in Tom and Sybil's way…this flat was so huge that they could go all day without running across one another if they wanted to. That Granny Martha! She did not mince around when it came to spending money on those she deemed worthy. Edith rather enjoyed watching Tom's discomfiture at the opulence of this place. Served him right, running off with her sister like that.

The door to the flat slammed, and quiet settled down like a mantle around Edith, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She had gotten nowhere with the grandiose plans she'd made before she had arrived in Ireland. It had been silly to think she could get a job—doing what, for heaven's sake? She hadn't given up the idea; neither that nor a flat of her own, but she wasn't thinking about those things today. No…today was special. Today she was meeting Patrick for lunch. For some reason, the thought made her giddy with anticipation, and at the same time left her quivering with anxiety.

She hadn't seen him since the evening she'd been invited to the Branson home for a dinner to welcome her back to Ireland. Nothing like the dinners she was used to at Downton, here it was all raucous banter and good-natured teasing. She had been accepted without question; she was Sybil's sister, and that was good enough for them. Moreover, she had chosen to come back to them, of her own accord. Edith had felt so _included_ , she had nearly begun to cry.

But after that magical evening, she had seen almost nothing of Patrick. He was laboring for his brother-in-law Daniel nearly around the clock, and according to Sybil this new work ethic was nothing short of miraculous. In the past, Patrick had gone from job to job like a honeybee, her sister told her, sampling each and never finding one to his liking.

When challenged, he had argued that he didn't mind work; he just liked fun more, and he couldn't see why the two couldn't go together. Tom had snorted and informed him that juggling several girlfriends at a time was not the kind of work that generally paid well, and it usually resulted in disaster, whereupon Patrick had shrugged and insisted that the right job was out there; he just hadn't found it yet.

And then he had. Two months ago, when the doctor had cleared him to return to work, Daniel had taken a chance and put his brother-in-law on his construction crew, and Patrick had fallen in love…with wood. Now his conversation was all about the mystery in the grain, the beauty just waiting to be set free with the right tools and the right ears to hear it calling. He had deserted the pub and the girls had deserted him, complaining that he was no fun anymore. He didn't care.

The Patrick Branson that Edith had met at the wedding party had been a mass of bruises, body hunched like that of an elderly man, nose swollen and blue. And yet, he had taken the time to sit with her, to tell her stories and jokes, to make her feel at home in this alien world. She had liked him very much. She had assumed that he was handsome, like his brothers—but never would she have believed that under the bruises and the swelling there was this ridiculously gorgeous creature! The discovery left her shy and awkward; she no longer knew what to say to him. Looks shouldn't matter, but they did, and this new Patrick was just too different. The easy comraderie of the wedding party was gone.

But now he had sent a message through Tom, asking her to have lunch with him at Murphy's Pub. Edith had been to Murphy's before; it was where Tom had introduced her to Irish beer, for which he had earned her eternal love and respect. But the prospect of being there with Patrick had her uneasy and worried. Maire worked there now, and Edith still was not sure how to take Tom's fractious sister. She had been polite enough, but there was a reserve, a coolness there, and Edith couldn't help but remember the horrible insults she had hurled at Papa not so long ago. Did she still feel that way? She wished Sybil could be there today. She wished she had just a tiny bit of the courage her sister had. She wished she had not told Patrick she would go.

Then she brightened as she remembered…they had Guinness at Murphy's. At least there was that.

 **November 5, 1919**

 **Mater Misericordiae Hospital**

As she went about her rounds at the hospital, Sybil was wondering what to do about her sister. Edith said she was enjoying herself—but was she? She really didn't _do_ anything. It was a bit frustrating; everyone in Sybil's life now worked, hard. She felt guilty that she'd had so little time to spend with her sister, but Edith didn't seem to mind. She just seemed happy to be away from Downton.

And that was also odd. She'd been here a month, and showed no signs of leaving any time soon. Tom's family had been very kind to her, but they treated her like a priceless vase that had been given into their care…as if they were responsible for her but didn't know what to do with her. For her part, Edith had seemed grateful to be included in Sybil's new world, and determined to belong.

She remembered her own first days in Dublin, and shuddered. Edith should be happy that her sister had paved the way with Tom's family so she didn't have to suffer the hostility and mistrust that she herself had faced just because she was English! Darling Tom had tried to be a buffer, to show his family that his fiancée was different, but the hatred that ran through Ireland at the British 'invasion', as they saw it, was ingrained in their culture, and for good reason.

She wondered if they ever would have come round if it hadn't been for the attempted murder of their brother, and the part Sybil had played in his remarkable recovery. But for that drama and the bizarre happenings before…and during…her wedding, she might still be an outsider. And how bleak her life here would have been!

Before Tom, she had known nothing about what it meant to be Irish, to be dominated and subjugated for your religion and your language. Encased in her cocoon of British nobility, she had never even met an Irish person, had thought herself forward-thinking, a real rebel, because she believed in women's rights. She had known nothing about suffering, about the vast gulf between the aristocracy and the poor. She had been so blind.

She wondered, for the hundredth time, how Tom had ever come to love her, coming from such a hotbed of loathing for her kind. She had only seen him explode that one time when he was their chauffeur, when she had made the childish comment, "I know we were not at our _best_ in Ireland", only to have him spit out the story of his cousin Eamon's murder during the Easter Rising. She really had been sure he hated her then, and had experienced a desolation at that moment that had enlightened her for the first time as to how serious her own feelings for him had become.

But he hadn't hated her. Tom was the most forgiving, the most genuine person she knew. She should have trusted him, should have known that he was too honest to let a moment's anger and passion change his feelings for her. She should have understood the depth of his love when he had first proposed in York. Should have said yes.

She shook herself back to her duties. Thinking of Tom always made her mind wander. Back to what her life might have been if she hadn't realized that she loved him as he did her. She had told him she was ready to travel—a silly thing to say, but the simple truth. It was the moment that her life had truly begun, the one that had changed everything she had once believed and taken for granted. "You are my ticket," she had told him, and the look on his face would be embedded in her heart forever.

She sighed. That was what Edith needed—someone like Tom to come along and change her life. But there was only one Tom. She chuckled to herself, remembering another conversation at Downton, with her granny Violet. "I will not give him up!" she had snapped, stamping her foot. And she hadn't…he was hers. Sybil was very much afraid that Edith was on her own there. She'd just have to find her own hero.

 **November 5**

 **Murphy's Pub**

"So, Pat, haven't seen you in here for awhile," said Colum. "Heard you were working, but didn't believe that! What brings you back into high society?"

Patrick flinched at his words. Wait till Colum saw his lunch date! He was debating the answer to that question, wishing he'd never asked Edith to meet him here. High society, for sure; what the hell had he been thinking? And why had she even agreed to come? Probably the prospect of a pint or two, if his guess was correct.

When he'd picked her up at the ferry last month, she had been shy and reserved, had barely said a word all the way to Sybil and Tom's flat. Nothing like the woman he remembered from the wedding party. That one had been fun. They had traded stories and teased each other all evening, laughing and sharing copious amounts of Colum's fine ale.

And then when they'd met again a few days later at Mam's for a welcome dinner party of sorts, she had barely looked at him. He wondered if he had imagined the woman at the wedding party, conjured her up out of his own boredom with the girls he was used to. She was just as lovely as before, and he glimpsed that beautiful smile when she joked with Tom or Sybil, but there was nothing there for him. The woman he remembered was gone.

He was jerked out of his glum thoughts by an intake of breath at the table next to his, and looked up to see Lady Edith standing in the doorway. In this environment she was a picture of gentility, like a spring flower peeking up in a farmer's field, rare and precious. He felt a sudden pride that she was there because of him. Pride, and a surprising stirring in the region of his heart.

Pinned in place by all the faces looking at her with curiousity, Edith's eyes darted around the pub in panic; she looked like a deer poised to flee. Patrick jumped up and crossed to her before she could do so, pasting on his best smile, and received a tremulous one in return. Christ, she was beautiful, he thought.

Moments later Lady Edith Crawley sat across from Patrick Branson, wondering if she should have come. She had never seen anything like him; she felt as if she were drowning in his blue eyes…losing herself. It had taken everything she had to keep her eyes off him at the Bransons', but here there was nowhere else to look. She was adrift, and it frightened her.

"How 'bout a glass of God's finest?" he asked. "I seem to remember that you and Lord Guinness were quite good companions." She blushed, he laughed at her, and just like that, they were friends again.

From there the conversation flowed, as did the beer. Maire wasn't working, thank God, so Edith didn't have to deal with that distraction. She felt the worry and self-consciousness drain out of her as she and Patrick picked up right where they had left off at the wedding party. He ordered fish and chips, and laughed at her pathetic attempt to eat out of the greasy paper. She brandished a chip like a sword and pretended to be offended. It was as if the strain between them had never been.

She asked about his new job, and watched his eyes dance as he shared his pleasure in the creation of beauty. He asked her what she thought of Ireland, and she told him that she liked it very much. The truth was, she liked _him_ very much. She needed to stay here longer—maybe forever; she wanted to spend more time with him, really get to know him.

Oh dear, was she getting drunk? But she was feeling a connection, an electricity, and she didn't think it was the alcohol. She also didn't think she was alone in the feeling. It was new, and lovely, and when she recognized it she felt a thrill of something she had seldom encountered before in her life. It was joy.

Edith shivered at a sudden chill. It felt slimy and foul; glancing out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a table of men in uniform across the room. Cold eyes glared at her with disgust, but it was nothing to the raw emotion she saw when they looked at Patrick. Hatred. Why? Who were they?

"British soldiers," Patrick said in a low, tight voice. "Don't look."

"But why are they staring at us?" she asked, confused. "Do they know you?"

"They don't have to," he sighed. "I'm Irish, and you're obviously of a higher class than me, so we shouldn't be together. They see it as an insult."

Edith took a sip of her third Guinness, looking at him over the edge of her glass. "And are we?…together?" Her face flushed bright red as she heard the words, but it was too late to take them back. She couldn't believe she had just said that and, and by his look of shock, neither could he. It was the alcohol talking—had to be. Her embarrassment was so acute that she pushed back her chair with a rush.

"I should go." Her eyes filled with tears. She had ruined things. She would never be able to look at him again.

His hand reached out across the table and took hers. A shock of electricity passed through her at the touch, leaving her trembling. Two pairs of wide eyes stared at each other. Something had just happened here—Edith did not know what it meant, but in that one moment, everything between them had changed.

"Is this man bothering you, miss?" A rough voice penetrated the fog, and she turned to see one of the British soldiers standing by their table, his posture threatening.

"N-no, thank you," she heard her voice, as if from a great distance. "No, everything is fine…we're together."

* * *

 **A/N:** In April of 1916 the Irish Volunteers, led by the radical Irish Republican Brotherhood, led an insurrection known as the Easter Rising in Dublin. In one bloody week more than five hundred Irishmen died, many of them civilians. The British executed sixteen leaders and imprisoned thousands of Irish nationalists. These actions inflamed public opinion and led to the eventual victory by Sinn Féin in the elections of 1918, and the beginning of the Irish War Of Independence.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Sinn Féin - shin + fane


	6. For the Sake of an Idea

_Strange how it is that men never act crueller than when they're fighting for the sake of an idea._ \- Marcel Theroux

 **November 11 , 1919**

 **Offices of the** _ **Irish Bulletin,**_ **Dublin**

Tom Branson paced the waiting room at the new _Irish Bulletin_ , which was difficult because the room was about the size of his old bedroom at Mam's. It was more like walking in circles, but he couldn't sit still. He was about to make a decision that would determine his professional future, and maybe his personal life as well, and he was sick with worry about its ramifications.

Tom hadn't slept well for days. Ever since he had decided to leave _The Evening Herald_ for the fledgling publication that was just beginning its life as the voice of the Dáil Éireann and the republican cause, he had been second guessing himself. He was doing well at the _Herald._ He was somewhat of a hero, in fact, since he had broken the story back in June of a band of Ulster Unionists secretly planning to kidnap an English aristocrat and his daughter.

For Tom the story had been intensely personal. The aristocrat had been his father-in-law, Lord Grantham, and the daughter was Sybil, the love of his life. Tom and his brothers had foiled the kidnap attempt and the story had made him an icon at the paper. He had received a promotion and his future was secure.

But Tom's dissatisfaction with the _Herald_ had been growing for some time. The editor seemed content to be another voice of the British in Ireland, glossing over the growing violence and taking the safe road rather than risking the wrath of the government. Tom had begged to be allowed to cover republican issues, had wanted to interview members of Sinn Féin and publish their politics, but had been refused. It was too dangerous, he had been told. And yet, when the Dáil had been outlawed, the paper had made it their front page headline. It was the last straw.

Michael had told him about a new publication just starting up that was going to report on the Irish side of events rather than pandering to the British. The aim was to get the word out to foreign journalists and newspapers about what was really going on in Ireland, the first time a newspaper had existed for that purpose. It was located in a small set of offices and guarded by the Irish Republican Army. The pay would be much less than Tom was making at the _Herald,_ and the danger much greater. And Tom Branson was not alone any longer. It was not his decision alone.

He had talked it over with Sybil as they lay in their big bed. The bed was where most things of importance took place in the Branson household, so it was logical that such a dangerous career move be discussed there. Sybil had listened as she always did, until he finished, and then she had turned to face her husband and asked the Big Question.

"This is important to you, isn't it, darling? You feel that you need to do something more for the cause?"

"Yes, I think I do," he sighed. "But it affects both of us, and our children when we have them. There will be much less money, at least for awhile, and the paper may not succeed in the end. There could be physical danger as well; the British government will not be happy with a publication telling the truth about their bullying of the Irish people. There could be reprisals. But I think I need to be a part of it."

Sybil was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "Do it, Tom. We'll make it work."

He looked at this beautiful woman who had been raised in the lap of luxury and pampered all her life and had given it all up to be with him. He marveled anew at her courage and resilience. He had just told her that they were probably going to be even poorer than they were now, and she hadn't hesitated for a second. He was glad now that at least he had agreed to the luxury flat that Sybil's granny had forced on them. Without such a gift, taking this job would not have been possible.

Her certainty and her faith in him made him realize how much he had wanted…needed…to do this. He was reaching in the dark, and he knew he needed her courage if he were to let go of the known and familiar. Her courage and love would see them through.

"Why are you so perfect?" he murmured into her hair. "How did I ever deserve you?"

"You waited, Tom. When I was unsure what to do about us, you waited. You never gave up, and I will never give up on you. Your heart belongs to me and to Ireland, and we will both be there for you, forever. Don't ever doubt it, darling."

The decision having been made, the activity in the bed had turned to more amorous pursuits, as it always did. Sybil wondered if Tom's new status as a revolutionary reporter would make their lovemaking even more adventurous, and then his lips reached a certain place, and she stopped thinking altogether.

 **November 11, 1919**

 **Johnson Mooney and O'Brien Bakery**

"Kathleen! What is wrong with you, girl? That's the second order you've mixed up today!" Bernadette scolded her sister. She sighed. She had a pretty good idea what was wrong with Katie; it was hard not to miss the daily visits by the handsome young lad with the black hair and blue eyes, after which Kathleen was for all intents and purposes useless for the rest of the morning.

Kathleen jumped and flushed. "Sorry, Bern. I'm just tired."

Bernadette snorted, but said nothing. After all, she'd been that age once. And the young man seemed the right sort. He was polite, and after all, it wasn't his fault if he was all moony eyes over Kathleen; she was a bit biased, but what red-blooded male wouldn't be? Her baby sister didn't even know how lovely she was. Still, this situation would bear watching, and it wouldn't hurt to find out a little bit about him.

Kathleen tried her best to get her mind back on pastry, but it was an impossible task. She knew her sister suspected that there was something up between Deaglan and her. She giggled; he was the only young man—the only man at all, really, who made a daily foray to the bake shop. What Bern didn't know, though, and she'd better not find out!…was that Kathleen was ready to take the next step in this relationship. To actually _talk_ to him, outside of work!

For relationship it was, even if it was nothing but looks and smiles at the moment. Ever since Deaglan had told her in a shy voice, as she was wrapping his scones with the speed of a sloth, that she was pretty and he would like to go out walking with her some time if she liked, Kathleen had found herself floating. If she liked! And here she'd thought he'd had a girlfriend who was the lucky recipient of all those cakes!

It was frustrating, she thought…this new feeling. She couldn't tell Bern about Deaglan, because her sister would grill her with questions about his background, his parents, his job. And she couldn't find out about all those things, because there were always customers waiting and Bernadette's sharp eyes missed nothing. But he must have a good family, she thought; he was so polite. He must have a job, too. Otherwise, how could he afford all the pastries he bought every day? And he always came first thing in the morning, right after Mooney's opened.

The truth was, she knew nothing at all about Deaglan Collins. Nothing except that he was kind, and sweet, and had the most adorable dimple on one side of his mouth when he smiled. He reminded her a bit of her brother Tom, who until now had been the most handsome man in her life. Well, Michael was just as good-looking, and of course there was Patrick…but Pat was beautiful, rather than handsome, and not her type anyway. Her type had black hair, and brilliant blue eyes, and…

"Kathleen!"

 **November 11, 1919**

 **Murphy's Pub**

Maire was tired. Murphy's was overflowing again, lilting Irish accents mixing with raucous British voices in a discordancy of sound that set her nerves on edge. She wished Colum wasn't so accomodating, wished he was more like other bar owners in Dublin, who made no secret of their disdain for the riffraff that made up the British army. They didn't belong here, swaggering around as if they owned the streets of Dublin. They had killed his own nephew, for God's sake! She couldn't understand it at all.

The RIC was bad enough; Irish turncoats whose presence was barely tolerated by their own countrymen, but the English! They had begun to send more and more soldiers to "handle" the civilian population, which remained a favorite target. Much easier to terrorize than the IRA, helpless citizens found themselves harrassed, intimidated, and even killed—sometimes in retaliation for something the IRA had done, often for no discernable reason at all.

The handsome one was here again, still following her with his stupid cow eyes. But Maire had no time to worry about him tonight. There was a table in which she had a particular interest, had already overheard enough to know that she needed to give the table nearby an extra wipe down.

Evan Langdon was indeed watching the pretty barmaid, but his motives were not what she imagined. At least not this time. He had taken note of the unusual attention she was paying to the table of British officers in the corner, and was wondering why. By this time he thought he knew her feelings toward his comrades in arms, and in general he was sympathetic. So why were they getting star service now? Why was she lingering?

He knew that one of them, Lieutenant Martin, frequented this pub almost as much as he did. He also knew that Martin shared many of his fellow soldiers' feelings about the Irish—they were barely above vermin; all of them were revolutionary scum, and the sooner they were properly subjugated, the better. Robert Martin was a cruel man. In fact, he was the kind of soldier that gave all of them a black eye. Evan did not trust him or the men with him for a minute. So he watched.

Shortly before closing time, Maire put on her coat and left the pub, accompanied by a young cousin of Colum's who had been assigned to see her home safely each evening. As Evan watched, the table of soldiers also arose, and followed the two out the door. He began to have a very bad feeling. Throwing down some money to settle his tab, he made his way out behind the soldiers, staying as far behind and out of sight as possible.

Maire turned at her corner and told young Cabhan that he could go home; she was within sight of her door and would be fine. He hesitated; Colum had told him to walk her all the way to her door and see her inside. He was afraid to incur his uncle's wrath, but he was more afraid of Maire. She was kind, but he had seen her angry and didn't want to experience it himself. So he waved and turned back, crossing the street to avoid an oncoming group of British soldiers.

Maire continued up her street, thinking of what she had heard tonight. Michael would be quite interested. It might be nothing, but—

She felt a sudden whoosh of air, and was enveloped in darkness as a blanket came down over her head. She struggled, kicking and grasping, but there were too many, and they were too strong. Arms and legs pinned in the suffocating folds of the blanket, she was thrown over a broad shoulder and carried off into the night. It had taken less than a minute, and the street was empty.

When the blanket was pulled off, Maire found herself kneeling on the floor of a small room facing a group of six British soldiers, all seated in chairs ringed around her. The only light came from a single lantern placed to the side. She opened her mouth to scream, only to have one of them produce a cloth and gag her, while another bound her hands behind her back. Their eyes glinted in the light thrown out by a single lantern.

"You have been a bad little Fenian", said one, an officer by his uniform, in a mocking voice. Maire's eyes flashed fire and defiance. "You have been carrying messages to the IRA, messages describing certain things about our plans and movements. It has caused us a great deal of inconvenience." He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, as if his words were mundane, of no importance.

"What you didn't know," he continued in a calm voice, "is that you were followed, and that we have tested our theory by planting false information." He smiled, a vicious, obscene twisting of thin lips. "The resulting activity of the IRA proved that our suspicions were correct, and so now, I'm afraid, you will have to be punished." He sighed, as if in sympathy for her plight, but Maire sensed there was no pity in this man. She felt the first frisson of fear work its way up her spine.

He glanced at his men, and nodded. One of them reached into a sack behind him and produced a straight razor, glinting sharp and deadly in the light of the lantern. Maire's eyes widened, and she began to struggle. Tears ran down her cheeks and soaked into the gag as she realized what they were going to do.

"Hold her." Lieutenant Robert Martin barked. Two soldiers grabbed her elbows and bent her over, so that her hair brushed the floor. The one with the straight razor approached and grabbed the mass of curls, wrapping it around his fist. He was not gentle, and pain battled with fear for supremacy in her mind.

It did not take long. All that could be heard in the next few moments was the harsh scraping of the razor's teeth and the muffled sobs of the young woman.

* * *

 **A/N:** The _Irish Bulletin_ began its existence in November 1919 and ran as a daily newspaper until December, 1921. It was funded by the Dáil Éireann as a means to get the Irish side of the story out to foreign correspondents. Among other reports, it contained lists of atrocities propogated by the British Army. The _Bulletin_ continued to run several issues a week, despite repeated attempts by the British government to suppress it.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Deaglan - deck + lan

Dáil - doyl

Maire - my + ra

Sinn Féin - shin + fane


	7. Dark Places

_The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but though love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater. -_ J.R.R. Tolkien

 **November 11, 1919**

 **A Dark Street, Dublin**

Where had she gone? Evan Langdon cast about the dark street, but neither the girl nor the soldiers were in evidence. He had ducked into an alley to avoid being seen, and when he had emerged the street was empty. It was as if they had vanished into thin air.

His feeling that something was very wrong intensified, and he felt panic begin to rise in his gut. The young boy who had been with Maire passed him going in the opposite direction, and Evan stepped in front of him. Upon seeing his uniform, the child looked alarmed and tried to flee, but Evan grabbed his arm and held him in place.

"It's alright, son, I mean you no harm." The boy looked doubtful.

"What happened to the young woman who was with you?" he asked. The child tightened his lips and looked at the ground.

"I think she's in danger!" Frustration roughened his voice. There was no time for this! "Did you pass a group of soldiers…like me?" Still the boy refused to answer.

"Damn it, I think they want to hurt her!" The boy looked up, saw the fear in the soldier's eyes, and remembered that he had been tasked with getting Maire home in safety. Oh, God, if something happened to her Colum would kill him!

"Sh-she left me at the c-corner," he stuttered, pointing to the next street crossing. "She lives up the street to the left. Sh-she's most likely home by now," he added with bravado. "Maire's very smart…and tough." But his fear was a palpable thing, and in the next second he began to cry.

"Go on home, lad. I'll take care of it," said Evan, and began to run up the street, turning left at the corner. Still nothing. The neighborhood was working class, clusters of three row homes with narrow walkways between each group. He saw nothing. Maybe the lad was right; maybe she was home with her family while he ran around out here like a fool. But he didn't think so.

Then he threw himself down behind a rubbish bin near a front door as a group of British soldiers came out of a walkway, laughing and joking. They did not look his way as they passed by, turning away from where he crouched.

He waited until they were out of sight, and then stood and walked silently down the same passage. He could see now that it was a sort of alley leading to the next street, with carriage doors spaced at intervals along its length. Probably used for storage. He could hear nothing; not even the autumn wind reached down into this dark passage.

He turned to go, and then he heard it. A muffled mewling, like that of a lost kitten, came from the door to his right. He stopped and listened—heard it again. He tried the door, found that it opened easily, and crept inside.

At first Evan could see nothing; the darkness was all inclusive. But the moaning was louder here, and he tracked it to a corner. Lying in a heap on the dirt floor he could make out the figure of a girl. She had been bound and gagged, but someone had removed the restraints and thrown them on top of her. She was lying on her side, eyes closed. Her face was filthy from the tracks of tears that had run down her face, mixing with dirt…and something darker.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Evan moved closer…and gasped in horror. She was nearly bald. Patches of hair stuck up no more than a half inch all over her head, and blood seeped from cuts in her skin where the scalp had been nicked and scraped. Thick curls of long chestnut hair lay strewn over the floor around the girl, all that remained to identify her as the beautiful barmaid from Murphy's.

He had heard about this. Head-shaving—done to humiliate a woman believed to be consorting with the enemy, or to send a message. But he had never seen the results of such barbarism, or the effect it had on a helpless human being. Without thinking, he knelt on the floor and gathered the girl into his arms, rocking her as if she were a baby, crooning meaningless phrases meant to calm her. While he did, his medical training took over and he assessed her for other damage. Other than the superficial cuts to her head, she seemed unhurt—on the outside. But Evan knew from his experience in the Great War that sometimes damage went beyond the physical.

He continued to rock her as she keened, shocked at the feeling of tenderness that swept through him as he did so. He didn't know if she was strong enough to combat what such an invasion could do to her emotionally, but he was determined to be there to help her however he could. He felt responsible for her, assuming the guilt of his countrymen at what had been done to this beautiful young woman.

And he felt something more—something struggling to the surface from deep inside him. He couldn't identify it yet, but he knew that something about this girl called to him from the depths of her anguish and despair. She didn't know it, but she needed him. He looked at her face and thought, I wish I could tell her how lovely she is…even like this.

Her eyes opened, and she stared up at him.

"Get… your filthy hands…off me." Quiet words, laced with venom and hatred and unspeakable pain.

Evan sighed.

 **November 11, 1919**

 **The Branson Flat**

Sybil sat with her feet on Tom's lap and watched him as he rubbed the soreness out, wishing he could rub the darkness from her thoughts as easily. It had been an awful day at the hospital. More and more people coming in with gunshot wounds from this infernal war, and most of them simply innocent civilians in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then there were those who were not so innocent…like the IRA, and republican journalists. Like Michael…like Tom.

"What is it, darling?" Tom never missed anything.

"Nothing," she sighed. "Nothing you can fix, at least. I just worry about you, in this new job. I'm afraid for you. But I know it's what you have to do, and I would never try to stop you."

"You know I would quit the _Bulletin_ in a minute if you wanted me to," he said quietly. "You are more important to me than any cause…even Ireland. I would have lived in England with you, or America. You are my life, mo chroi…and you know it. So what's really wrong?"

Sybil looked down at her lap. When she looked up again, her eyes were full of tears.

"I'm so sorry, Tom!" Her voice came out whispery, ragged. "I don't deserve you!"

He chuckled. "Of course you do, darlin'. You deserve so much better than me! But what's brought this on?"

She continued to stare at him, tears now running freely down her cheeks. "You hate this flat, don't you?"

He stared. The flat? A minute ago she had been worrying about his safety, and now it was about the damn flat? If he lived to be a hundred, he'd never understand women.

But she was right…sort of. He didn't actually hate the flat, he just didn't feel comfortable in it. He wasn't used to this kind of luxury, he didn't like the echoes in the cavernous space…oh, damn it, the truth was he didn't like the fact that he hadn't _earned_ it. It wasn't his world, and it never could be. But he had convinced himself that it was all right, as long as Sybil wanted it, and he thought he'd convinced her. He should have known better; she knew him too well.

"I don't mind it," he said carefully. "I just wish I could afford a place like this, and I know I'll never be able to. I don't like it that I can't provide you the life you had before…before me. But all that really matters is that we're together. The rest is—"

"I know, the rest is detail." She sat up straight and looked at him earnestly. "But details _do_ matter, when you love someone. And the little detail here is, I've been very selfish. I told you the truth when I said I didn't care about all that nonsense. But then, the first time I was tested, I gave in to Granny and let her buy me back. It's been bothering me for a long time, Tom, but now I don't know what to do about it!"

Tom grabbed his wife's hand and pulled her onto his lap. "You're amazing, d'you know that?" he said, his voice thick with emotion. He wiped away her tears with a rough thumb. "Don't worry, darlin', we'll figure something out. Meanwhile, we need someplace to live, and with my new job, we can't afford much at the moment anyway. Besides, where would we put your sister? This place is as good as any for now"…he looked around at the luxury that surrounded them, and winked at her…"but what say we think about selling it one day soon and buying you a nice little shack on the other side of town?"

Sybil threw her arms around him and covered his face with kisses. "Oh, Tom, that would be perfect! I do love you so much!"

"Ahem. Excuse me?" Edith said from the doorway. "Michael's at the door, and he seems very upset. Says it's an emergency."

 **November 11, 1919**

 **The Branson Family Home**

All the lights were on in the Branson home. Claire was pacing, trying to keep her fear from leaching out to the others and failing miserably. Sybil was keeping herself busy, serving tea, straightening furniture, anything to distract herself. Kathleen sat next to Bernadette, holding her hand.

Edith had stayed back at the flat, not wanting to be in the way, helpless in this family crisis. She remembered another time a Branson family member had been missing, with the clarity born of a new understanding concerning that particular family member, and she remembered the fear and the agony of that night. This relationship was too new; it wasn't ready to share something like this. So she stayed away, and worried alone.

Maire had been due home more than two hours ago. Young Cabhan had gone back to Murphy's and gasped out a story to Colum about a British soldier who had been looking for her. Amidst his tears he had managed the admission that he had left her on her corner at her insistence. "She made me leave," he had protested. "She's probably home by now, but the soldier scared me. He said there were other soldiers that wanted to hurt her! Then he ran after her! I didn't know what to do, so I came back here. I'm so sorry…"

Colum had not waited for him to finish his self-recriminations, running to the Bransons' in the dark, hoping that this feeling of dread was wrong, knowing in his heart that it wasn't. Maire was just too reckless! If something had happened to her, he didn't know how he would ever forgive himself. He loved that young girl as if she were his own—why hadn't he protected her better?

And now the men were out looking, and the women were at home waiting. Just like it had been throughout the centuries, Sybil thought in despair. She knew that she had to stay in case…someone…needed medical attention, but the inaction was killing her. She needed to do something. She needed to see Maire sauntering through that door, not a care in the world. She needed Tom.

A heavy knock came at the door, and everyone froze. Time stood still, those in the room remembering that other time with Patrick, and then Claire forced her body to move, to open that door to whatever news waited on the other side.

A young man stood in the doorway, his arm around a figure that was slumped against him, face hidden, a blanket wrapped around its head and shoulders. The man wore the uniform of the British army, and his eyes were bleak.

"I've brought her home," he said simply, and gently moved forward with his burden. Claire looked at him in confusion, and then looked at the figure held in his arms. Maire.

"Is she hurt? What have you done to her?" Claire demanded. She took Maire from him and shoved him back, away from her daughter. The blanket fell back from her head, and everyone gasped in horror. Her beautiful hair was gone, replaced by a red and white palate of blood and raw skin interspersed with tiny patches of chestnut fuzz. Her swollen eyes fastened on her mother's face, but she said nothing.

Claire clasped her daughter to her breast, and turned back to the soldier in the doorway. "Who did this?" she demanded, her voice breaking. "Who did this to my precious girl?"

"Soldiers." His voice was low, filled with self-loathing. "British soldiers, just like me."

"Why did you bring her to us?" Claire's voice was flat. She had to keep her mind on something besides the pitiful thing in her arms. Had to keep herself from attacking this man. "What happened?"

"I followed them from Murphy's. I …found her like this…I tried to clean her up." "I-I have medical training"…his voice was halting. He choked out the words, "I hate what they did!"

Michael appeared in the doorway behind Evan Langdon, followed by Tom. "Is she home?" Then he took in the scene before him, saw his sister and what had been done to her, and focused his rage and impotence on the British soldier in front of him. "I will _kill_ you!" he screamed, and lunged for the man in uniform. Evan stood still, making no effort to defend himself as Michael grabbed him around the throat.

"Stop! Stop it, Michael!" Claire's voice rang out. "This man brought Maire home to us. He found her; helped her. He didn't need to do that!"

Reluctantly Michael stepped back, keeping a cold eye on the soldier. "Talk."

So Evan did, telling them about the soldiers who had followed Maire from the pub and his suspicions about them, about losing the men and finding the young lad who had been with her. About seeing the men emerge from the alleyway and going in to investigate. About finding the girl, cleaning her wounds. Finding out with difficulty where she lived, and bringing her here. He did not tell them about the girl's words to him in the dark room. He deserved them, and the pain they brought.

Sybil came forward and gently took Maire from Claire's arms. Her sister-in-law still had said nothing; the eyes in her white face were glazed and dull. She was in shock, Sybil realized. About that, she _could_ do something. She walked with her burden into the kitchen, those in the front room watching them go and saying nothing, still in shock themselves. There was nothing to say.

Claire shook herself and stepped forward. "It seems that we have you to thank for saving my daughter," she said formally. "So…thank you.

"And now I think you should leave."

Evan turned without a word and left the Branson home, his heart heavy. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone in the darkness. He trudged to his barracks, wondering what kind of God could allow such love and grief to exist in the same universe, and where faith and hope fit in. If they even did.

* * *

 **A/N:** During the Irish War of Independence, head-shaving was common on both sides as a form of intimidation. It was seen by the perpetrators as a humane punishment, although the violation of a woman's femininity was as painful as the act itself. The attacks most often took place at night, and away from others who could rescue the woman. A woman with a shaved head had to endure the shame of her status as a "warning" to others, and the psychological damage was often intense and lasting.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Cabhan - kav + an

Maire - my + ra

Mo chroi (my love) - muh+ khree


	8. The Other Side

_There were no measures that truly protected against disaster; you simply held on to what mattered and hoped that you found your way to the other side. -_ Kevin Wilson

 **November 18, 1919**

 **The Branson Flat**

"There's no change?" Tom asked. His face was drawn; since the attack on his sister, he and Michael had spent all their time outside of work scouring the city, looking for information on the soldiers responsible. No one with the army would admit to knowing anything, and the frustration was beginning to take its toll. Twice Tom had fallen asleep at the table, once Sybil had found him splayed across the bed, sound asleep fully clothed. Now, both lay in their big bed staring at the ceiling, exhausted but unable to sleep.

"No, none," Sybil answered. She had been spending her days at the Bransons' home the past week to be near in case her sister-in-law needed her. Dr. Walsh had been an angel, telling her that she was owed some time off at the hospital and she ought to spend it where she was needed most…with her family. Sybil would be eternally grateful to the kind man who had seen beyond her Englishness and given her a job when her hope had been at its lowest point. She didn't think she would ever be able to repay him for his kindness.

"She hasn't come out of her room, and won't let anyone except Mam in. Kathleen's been sleeping on the couch in the sitting room. Maire doesn't talk, except to thank Mam for the tray of food she takes up, most of which she doesn't eat. I'm worried about her. She's fallen into a deep depression, and she needs something to jolt her out of it…but I don't know what that is."

"What're we going to do?" Tom asked, his voice desolate. "She's not badly hurt, is she? You said the cuts weren't deep, and they didn't do…anything else, right?"

"No, darling, physically she's fine. It's her mental state that worries me now; I know it's hard for you to understand, Tom, but to shave a woman's head is to rob her of her feminity, to violate the very essense of her being. And to be held against her will while it was done, to be unable to do a thing to stop it…well, you know what Maire's like. She needs to be in control, to be strong. They took that away from her. She's lost."

"I wish I could get a few minutes alone with that soldier who brought her home," Tom said, his voice grim. "You say he's been by the house every day since it happened, asking how she is? I'm sure he knows who attacked Maire, but I can't take off work to wait for him to show up again. He told Mam that he doesn't know who the men were, but I'm sure he's lying, just like he was lying when he said he hated what they did!"

Sybil turned on her side and faced her husband. "I'm not so sure about that," she said thoughtfully. "You were out looking, so you didn't see his face when he brought her home. He was devastated—almost as shocked as she was. Think of how it must have felt for him to find her like that, and to know that his own people did that to her. There's something deeper going on with that man, I'm sure of it. There's a reason he keeps stopping by, but Mam won't let him in, and he never argues; just goes away without a word. And then the next day he's back again."

"I still think I could get it out of him, or Michael could," Tom insisted, with that stubborn look she knew so well. "Mam won't talk to him, but somebody should."

"Well," said Sybil thoughtfully. "Maybe I could talk to him. I might be the best one to deal with him; after all, I'm English, too. And I think I've proven that not everyone who is British is evil. No…" she held up a hand. "Hear me out. I think there's more to this man than that uniform. He said he's had medical training, and that means he has a code of ethics. We have that in common, too. It certainly can't hurt to try!"

Tom had to admit that she made sense. All he wanted to do was punch the man in his face, but he knew that would not help. He had seen Sybil charm the most reluctant patients into doing what she wanted, and she only had to look at him and he turned into a pudding, so maybe she could get this British soldier to give up the information he was hiding. Because he was sure that the man was hiding _something._

He wrapped his arms around his wife and gazed into her eyes. "All right, love, but be careful." He sighed. "You know I can't resist you when you're being all earnest and logical, don't you? It's just so adorable!" Sybil punched his arm and tried to glare, but his smile undid her, as it always had. She grinned at him from under her lashes…and suddenly he wasn't so tired anymore.

 **November 19, 1919**

 **The Branson Flat**

Edith roamed the empty flat, listening to her footsteps echo and wondering what was going on over at the Bransons'. Tom and Sybil had come back that horrible night a week ago and told her what had happened, and Sybil had been keeping her up on Maire's progress, or rather lack of it. It was so sad. She wondered why she cared so much about a girl she didn't even like. No, it wasn't that. She didn't know the Branson girl well enough to dislike her. She just felt uncomfortable around her, as if she were being judged and found wanting. And suddenly Edith knew what it was. Maire reminded her of Mary.

That day had started out so well. Something had happened between Patrick and her—something important, and she had been looking forward to finding out where it could lead. And then Michael had shown up to tell them that Maire was missing. And that reminded her of Mary, too. Always showing up at the last minute to throw dirt on the fire.

She sat down and put her face in her hands. Whoa, Edith! she scolded herself. That was just plain mean. Never in a million years would Maire have chosen this fate. It was just that hateful part of her own nature trying to wiggle into her mind again; the jealous, spiteful side of her that she had run from as surely as she'd run from Downton. And she determined, right then and there, that if given the opportunity she would do anything she could to help Patrick's sister.

She giggled to herself. Patrick's sister…not Tom's. There had been a shift in her mind, and now their former chauffeur was not the center of all things Branson anymore. Not even close.

She hadn't seen Patrick since that lunch at Murphy's, but for the first time in her life she wasn't worried about what that meant. The old Edith would have gnawed on it, worried it like a dog with a bone. But she knew that whatever had transpired between them in Murphy's Pub, it had affected both of them, and it hadn't been the alcohol. Well, not entirely. The Guinness had been an ally, giving her the courage to make the first move. But he had made the second. She savored the memory of the way she had felt when he touched her, of the way his eyes had turned liquid when he looked at her. That had been real.

Edith had a lot of patience. She had patiently waited all her life…to be noticed, to be heard, sometimes to pick up the scraps of Mary's old suitors. So she was willing to wait, to give this spark time to become something more, if it would. If it really meant something, it was worth nurturing.

A knock came at the door, startling her out of her reverie. Tom and Sybil had keys; they wouldn't knock. They had been at the Branson house after work for most of the week, so it couldn't be Michael again; he would know where they were. And she didn't know anyone else in Dublin.

She realized that her steps were increasing in speed as she approached the door. Take it slow, girl! she cautioned herself. Remember, you're a Crawley!

Patrick stood in the hallway, his hat in his hands. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Then Edith pulled him into the flat, slammed the door shut behind him, and went into his arms. He tasted of whiskey and hope. And for a long time she lost track of everything.

 **November 21, 1919**

 **The Branson Home**

Sybil looked at Maire, propped up in her bed. They sat not a foot apart, but for all intents and purposes Sybil was alone. Maire answered questions put to her…flat, monosyllabic responses that meant nothing. There was nothing physically wrong with her, yet she refused to leave the bed. She had been this way for almost a week. At least she had allowed Sybil into her room; that was progress, she supposed.

"Maire, darling, you have to come downstairs. No one cares what you look like—we're your family! Everyone in this house loves you and is worried about you."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just want to be by myself for awhile. Thank you, Sybil." The same answers over and over, a monotone. The passion was gone; she was like a lifeless doll.

Sybil sighed and got up. "I'll check back in a little while."

Without looking at her, Maire said, "That would be nice."

Sybil went downstairs and shook her head at Mam. "Nothing. I can't get through. It's as if she's given up."

Claire Branson sat down heavily in a chair. "What will happen to her, Sybil? She can't go on like this! We're losing her!" The despair in her voice cloaked the room, filling the space with a dreary sorrow.

A knock on the door had Claire's head snapping up in fury. "It's that soldier again! Tell him to go away, Sybil…why won't he stay away?"

Sybil put her hand on Claire's shoulder and squeezed it. "I'm going to talk to him, Mam. Tom and I spoke about this, and he needs to find out what this man knows. There's a reason he keeps coming back, and I'm not sure it's all about guilt. If he had been a part of this, he wouldn't have brought her home…would he? We won't let him near Maire, but I need to talk to him. What do we have to lose?"

Claire stared at Sybil through glassy eyes. "Go ahead, then. But I'm going into the kitchen. I can't be here for this." She stood up and walked out of the room, moving like an old woman. Maire wasn't the only one who had lost her way, Sybil thought. The psychological impact of this crime had affected them all.

She opened the door. A man stood on the step, head lowered as if expecting a blow.

"Yes?" Sybil said quietly. "Can I help you?"

Evan Langdon looked up in surprise at the English voice. "Umm…how is she?"

"The same. Maybe you'd better come in."

The hope in his eyes was startling and a little unnerving, but Sybil tamped down her anxiety and led him into the sitting room, directing him to a chair and taking a seat across from him. For a long moment, neither said anything. Then Sybil asked, in an even tone, "Why do you keep coming here?"

Evan said nothing for a long minute, then looked up, his soft hazel eyes filled with pain. "I don't know."

"It was very nice of you to bring Maire home to her family, but you've done that. You took care of her and cleaned her up, and you may have kept her from going further into shock. We're grateful. But she's home now, and she's receiving care—so why are you here?" Sybil persisted.

Haltingly, Evan began to speak. "I used to see her in the pub, and I admired her spirit. She was funny and nice…oh, not to me, of course, but I could see how she was with people not…like me…and…I thought she was beautiful and kind. Then…when they followed her, I knew they were going to do something bad, and I wanted to help her…protect her. I don't know why!" His last words were almost a cry, a plea for understanding, his eyes desolate.

"I followed them. When that boy came back alone, I knew she was in trouble. I looked for her, but I couldn't find her…and then those _bastards_ …his voice twisted with bitterness…when they came out of that alley laughing and congratulating themselves…I …was afraid they'd killed her. I searched the alley, and then I heard her whimpering, and…and…I found her. I cleaned her up, and got her to tell me where she lived, and…you know the rest." He looked at Sybil, the first direct eye contact he had made, and said in a tight voice, "You needn't worry, I know who they are…I will take care of it." As if he had expended all his energy with that promise, his voice wound down like a clockwork toy, and he lowered his head again.

"I understand. But why," Sybil said softly, "are you _here_ …a week later?"

"I'm a doctor, or at least I hope to be one someday. I know what despair can do to a patient. And I saw how she was when I brought her home. I saw it happen to soldiers in the war." He was speaking rapidly now, warming to his subject. "Men who had lost a limb and couldn't climb back out of the pit in their minds. We could heal their injuries, get them back on their feet…but we couldn't fix the horror inside them. Sometimes they just wasted away and died, and we couldn't stop it! And I was afraid that might happen to her. She was broken. They had destroyed her deep inside, where she lives. I had to help!"

Sybil remembered Lieutenant Courtenay back at Downton, and knew that the soldier spoke the truth. She leaned over and took one of his hands. "But you are the symbol of everything she hates," she said gently, "you know that, don't you? How did you think you could help?"

"I went back. To the room where they took her." He reached into the bag he had carried over his shoulder and pulled something out. Sybil gasped when she saw what he held in his hand, and an echoing gasp came from the doorway, where Claire had crept up quietly. For an interminable length of time, the three were frozen in place, and then Claire nodded to her daughter-in-law.

Sybil stood up. "Come with me." She led him up the stairs to Maire's room, and knocked softly. "Maire? I have a visitor to see you. We're coming in."

When they entered the room, Maire looked at the soldier and then at Sybil. She put her hands over her bare scalp and cowered back against the headboard like a cornered animal, her eyes round and feral.

"How could you, Sybil?" she hissed. "Get him out of here!"

"This is the man who saved you and brought you home. He has something to show you, and you are going to be polite and look at it," Sybil said in the voice she used with recalcitrant patients. "Go ahead," she nodded to Evan. "Show her."

"I collected your hair," he said, his voice trembling. "I took it to a wigmaker, and had a wig made for you." He paused, collected himself, and went on in a stronger voice, "I used to watch you at the pub. The girl I saw there was fierce and proud. She would never let them get away with what they had done to her. The girl I saw would put her hair right back on and show them what she's made of!" He stopped, shocked at the words that had come out of his mouth, but he kept his gaze fixed on the girl in the bed as he held the wig out to her.

Maire stared at him, her eyes like saucers. Her hands came down from her head and clutched at the covers on the bed, and her body began to shake. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Sybil went to her and gathered her up in her arms, allowing Maire's head to fall onto her shoulder.

I-I'll leave, then," Evan said, as he turned away to let them have their privacy. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right, and give you the wig. I won't bother you again."

He placed the hairpiece on an end table. He had reached the door and was leaving the room when a small voice stopped him.

"No. Please…stay. I didn't get a chance to thank you properly…for the rescue…and for my hair."

* * *

 **A/N:** As the war heated up in Ireland, the British army made little attempt to bond with the civilian population, who were often soft targets for retaliation. When attempts to receive justice from the constabulary or the army were made, they were often met with indifference and inaction, which might explain Tom's frustration.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Maire - my + ra


	9. The Power Of Three

_They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for. -_ Tom Bodett

 **December 12, 1919**

 **Johnson Mooney and O'Brien Bakery**

Deaglan Collins was supposed to be waiting for Kathleen Branson outside the bakery, as they had planned. Their exchanges so far consisted of written notes on napkins passed over the counter with money or tucked into a bag of scones, and they thought that they were becoming quite adept at espionage. But today they were finally going to meet. And talk.

Kathleen had pleaded a headache and asked Bernadette if she could step outside for a few minutes for some fresh air. It wasn't much, but she was new at this plotting thing and it would have to do for a first meeting. After what had happened to Maire, Kathleen was surprised that Bernadette had let her go, even in broad daylight, but Bern had been busy with the accounts and merely mumbled an order to be careful and not go far.

The horror of what had happened to her sister had receded somewhat in the past weeks; Maire was back at work and seemed to have regained much of her old spirit. Kathleen wasn't sure what had caused the change, but she was certain Sybil had something to do with it. Sybil was often behind anything good that happened to the Bransons. At any rate, Bern had relaxed her vigilance a bit, and for a few moments Kathleen was free.

She stepped outside into the brisk winter afternoon and looked around. Christmas decorations were hanging from lamp posts, greens festooned storefronts, and Christmas hymns sounded from the cathedral on the next street, but Kathleen was unaware of any of it. He was not there. A group of older lads ambled past, and one or two looked her up and down in appreciation before continuing on their way, but Deaglan was nowhere in sight.

What had happened? He had told her exactly where he would be waiting…and suddenly she knew— he was not coming. He had been toying with her, making a fool of her. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned to go back inside the bakery. That's what she got for lying; now she really _was_ getting a headache! She'd been so stupid!

"Wait!" an urgent voice whispered. "I'm here!" and there he was. He had come out of the alleyway next to the bakery and was looking up the street, marking the passage of the group of lads who had passed by. He seemed evasive, as if he did not want to be seen by them. As the group rounded the next corner and disappeared from sight, Deaglan relaxed and his smile returned. And just like that, the sun came out and the day brightened.

"Shall we walk a little way?" His voice was tentative. Was he nervous? Surely not! Kathleen was the neophyte at this sort of thing; she was sure that his experience with girls was vastly superior to hers with men, as she had none. Nevertheless, as he fell into step beside her, she could feel a tension radiating from him. It made her feel better about herself, stronger.

"So," he said as they reached the end of the street and turned back again. "Tell me about Kathleen Branson. "I mean, besides the fact that she's beautiful and sweet…". He blushed, and Kathleen felt her heart flip. So she told him that she came from a family of six. And then she asked him about his, and just like that they were talking. This was not difficult at all! Kathleen felt quite worldly. When they passed a small park with benches, it just seemed natural for them to take a moment to sit down and rest.

He was twenty-one, and had one sister, who was two years older and thought she was his second mother. His father was dead, like hers, and his mother was an invalid and was bedridden much of the time, but he had an uncle who had helped to raise him and his sister.

"Aislinn bosses me around something fierce," he said, but there was affection in his voice. "She thinks she can tell me what to do, whom to see and how late to be out. Thinks she's a detective. She's been wondering why I'm bringin' home all these cakes and pastries, and the not knowing is pure killing her!" He looked sideways at Kathleen and grinned. "We both work at the brewery, so it's really hard to get away from her, but I've shaken her off for now!"

"Ha!" laughed Kathleen. "You should try being the youngest of three brothers and a brother-in-law, and two sisters and a sister-in-law, all kept in line by a mother who doesn't miss a thing!"

He looked impressed. "Well, you win that one, I guess. What do they all do?"

"My Mam's a seamstress; the best in Dublin," Kathleen said proudly. "My sister runs the bakery, her husband Daniel has his own construction crew and my brother Patrick works for him. My brother Tom is a journalist—he's the smart one of the family—and my sister-in-law Sybil is a nurse. My brother Michael works on the docks, and my sister Maire is a waitress at Murphy's Pub. And that's the lot!" She smiled as she thought of something. "My sister probably serves up the beer you make!"

Deaglan laughed. "So that's another connection we have."

"Another one?" She was confused.

"Yes, I buy the pastries that _you_ make!"

They laughed at the idea, and then Kathleen asked, "And what does your uncle do? Is he a brewer too?"

Deaglan was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "No, he's an accountant. He works for the government."

"Well, said Kathleen. "That's another connection, then! My sister-in-law is British."

"Not that government," said Deaglan quietly. "He works for the Dáil." He hesitated, then said, "He's the minister of finance."

Kathleen turned to look at him. She didn't follow politics, but she'd certainly heard Tom, Maire and Michael talk enough about the Dáil Éireann to know a few things about the new Irish Parliament.

"Collins?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes," he sighed, a wary look in his eyes. "My uncle is Michael Collins."

Here it was, he thought. The moment when people either backed off or became aggressive because of his relationship to the leader of the republican cause in Ireland. Sometimes he was targeted by other lads who disagreed with his uncle's politics, and girls usually wanted to avoid the danger that came with his proximity to such a man. He tensed, and waited.

Kathleen stared at him, and slowly a wide smile spread over her face. _The_ Michael Collins? Oh, and wouldn't her brother Michael be over the moon about _that_ , she thought. Another connection, indeed. That made three, and wasn't three a charm?

 **December 23, 1919**

 **The Branson Flat**

Patrick was late. Edith had been waiting for almost an hour, and her irritation was building. There were three things that drove Lady Edith mad: her sister Mary, her own timidity…and tardiness. This was supposed to be their special time— he knew that. But he had been late several times in the last few weeks, and Edith had to admit that she found this particular habit more than a trifle annoying. Happy-go-lucky, laid back, devil-may-care…all of those expressions made it sound charming and lovable, when the reality was that it was just damn inconsiderate.

It was not fashionable to be tardy, Edith thought belligerently; it was rude and thoughtless. She had thought she was coming to a place where time meant something. People in Ireland _worked_ for a living, at least those she knew. Claire Branson was always busy. Maire, Michael, Kathleen—all of them seemed to adhere to a schedule with no difficulty. All of them except Patrick.

Patrick had always been easygoing. The infamous Branson temper had bypassed him entirely; Claire Branson liked to say that Michael and Maire had each gotten a double dose, leaving nothing for the two youngest Bransons.

And Patrick wasn't late on purpose, he just often had his head somewhere else. Sybil had told her it was worse since he had begun working for Daniel. He was never late to work; he just forgot to stop, to come up for air sometimes. Edith was beginning to feel that she was playing second fiddle to a block of wood, and it was getting on her nerves.

She had been looking forward to this evening. Tom and Sybil were out doing some Christmas shopping and then spending the evening with Tom's mother, so she and Patrick had the flat to themselves. Correction: _she_ had the flat to herself. She had stopped pacing and was sitting on the couch next to the fireplace, tapping her foot like one of those nuns in the church the Branson family attended. She'd bet her face looked like one of them, too…tight-lipped and disapproving. She didn't care.

When he knocked, she took her sweet time getting to the door. His lack of consideration was not going to make _her_ rush, Edith told herself. And she was going to give him an earful this time, too!

Patrick stood in the doorway with a happy grin on his face. Edith glared at him, but he didn't seem to notice. He reached to hug her, but she stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Where have you been?" Her voice dripped ice. "You're over an hour late. I was getting worried."

The happy look wavered. "I had to finish something up…sorry, it took a bit longer than I thought, but I wanted it to be perfect."

"You always want your projects to be perfect!" Edith could hear her voice rising, but she was in full swing now and there was no one quite as good at righteous indignation as Edith Crawley when she felt hard done by. "You seem to care more about your projects than you do about me! I feel left out of your life." She took a breath. "I thought we had something, but I'm not so sure!"

There. It was out. She had let it build and fester, and now, fueled by her insecurity, it had risen up and exploded. Patrick looked puzzled. He studied the floor, shuffled his feet, and then reached into his knapsack.

"Well," he said in his soft, velvet lilt. "I was going to wait till tomorrow, but I might as well give it to you now. I've been spending all my spare time on it, and I think it's as ready as it's going to be."

"W-what?"

He handed her a long box. "Happy Christmas," he said.

Edith took the box and sat down—hard—on the couch. She had a horrible feeling that she had just made a complete ass of herself. She opened the package to find an exquisite set of wooden beads, graduated in size, each bead carved into an intricate pattern of vines and flowers, polished to a soft glow and perfect in shape. A tiny silver shamrock dangled from the clasp. Edith Crawley had many lovely necklaces, some worth more than Patrick would make in a year…but she had never seen anything so beautiful as this set of beads that he had made for her with his own hands. Her eyes filled with tears.

"I—I'm s-so s-sorry!" She dropped the box into her lap and put her head in her hands. "This is the m-most wonderful gift anyone has ever g-given me, and you m-made it for me yourself! You made it for me! I'm the m-most horrible person in the world, and I d-don't deserve it! I don't deserve you!" Tears of shame and remorse were overflowing now. She kept her hands over her face, afraid to look at him…afraid to see the condemnation in his eyes.

Patrick sat down next to her and put his arms around her, pulling her to him. "Well, darlin'," he said, "I won't say it's always easy dealin' with you posh types, but I think you just might be worth the trouble." He held her face in his rough workman's hands and kissed her gently. "It was never going to be easy for us…we just have to care enough to try. Do you care enough, my lady?"

She couldn't answer him through her sobs, so she buried her face in his shoulder and blubbered. It was enough.

 **December 24, 1919**

 **The Branson Home**

It had been a long day, and Sybil was dead on her feet. She was tired a lot these days, and today she hadn't felt well. Dr. Walsh had let her go early this afternoon, his Christmas gift to her, and tomorrow she was off for the holiday. She could rest then. After all, this was her first Christmas as a Branson, and she didn't want to miss a thing. She had gone early to Mam's to help with the preparations, but Claire and Bernadette worked so efficiently as a team that she felt superfluous. They had finished the cleaning and set out the candles and the holly, and made certain that every doorway had a sprig of mistletoe and the candle was set in the front window. Sybil was just in their way.

"When is Daidí na Nollag coming?" screeched Connor, dashing into the room and nearly bowling Sybil over. Connor was three and a half now, the veteran of three whole Christmases, and he remembered well the joy of finding his sack filled last Christmas morning.

"Gack!" His sister Fiona, who had just reached the ripe old age of one, toddled in on fat little legs and echoed her brother. This is where I can help, thought Sybil in relief, and swept her niece and nephew away into the sitting room to entertain them with stories. And that was where Tom found her.

He stood in the doorway and watched his wife with the children. She would be such a perfect mother, he thought, and felt that familiar rush of emotion as he looked at this expatriate aristocrat who had turned his life and his world upside down. It was this way every time he looked at her; when he woke in the morning and looked into her sleep-clouded eyes, and when he came home from work to find her trying another recipe that his mother had tried to teach her, face flushed from the oven's heat and hair escaping its careless bun. God, he loved this woman!

Sybil turned and saw him, and her eyes lit. She sauntered over and pointed wordlessly at the innocent sprig of greenery that hung above his head, before wrapping her arms around him and finding his lips with her own.

"Ahem!" said Bernadette. "Don't you two ever get enough? Everyone's here; it's time for dinner. Come!" She scooped up her children. Tom held his hand out to his wife, and they went to join the others.

As the fish was served, Sybil looked with affection at the faces around the Branson table. Michael, Kathleen, Daniel. Bernadette, Claire. Maire, looking happier than she had in a long time; it had been a rough go, but she was strong and stubborn. Patrick, laughing and joking with her sister Edith, who had never looked more beautiful than she did tonight. Sybil felt a surge of love for her sister; how perfect that she was here to share her first Christmas in Dublin!

Throughout the evening, neighbors came and were offered tea and cake, which by tradition was refused once, sometimes twice, and then accepted with gratitude. Things began to blur.

"Sybil, I think Tom should take you home." Claire was looking at her with concern. "You've been working too hard, and it won't do for you to get sick. God will understand if you two miss one Midnight Mass, I think."

So now here they were, sitting before the fire in their flat, wrapped in a blanket and in each other as they stared into the fire. Sybil's eyelids were drooping.

"Darling, you should get some sleep," Tom told her. "Tomorrow's a big day."

"I'll go, but first I have to give you your Christmas present."

"I thought we agreed not to buy each other anything," he protested.

"I didn't buy anything," Sybil answered him, a mysterious look on her face. "Your mother is teaching me to make lace, and she helped me make something for you."

"You made me something out of lace? Um…Sybil, have you ever seen me wear lace?"

She laughed, and handed him a tissue wrapped package. Perplexed, Tom opened the paper, and stared. Nestled inside the folds of tissue was a tiny white dress with Irish lace adorning the hem and sleeves.

"What—?" he whispered. Two pairs of blue eyes met and held each other, and then the smile she adored spread over Tom Branson's face.

"It's a Christening gown," Sybil said softly. "Happy Christmas, darling. You're going to be a father."

* * *

 **A/N:** Michael Collins was one of the most important figures in the Irish War of Independence. Son of a farmer, he became a leader in Sinn Féin and the Irish Republican Brotherhood, taking a major role in the Easter Rising of 1916. As a key member of the Dáil Éireann, he was appointed minister of finance, and organised the hugely successful Dail loan which was responsible for financing the new republican government. He is most famous for his leadership of the Irish Republican Army (IRA), and his establishment of "the Squad", a group of gunmen tasked with the assassination of British agents during the War.

 **A/N:** Irish tradition has it that when offered a gift of hospitality at Christmas, it should be refused once or twice. The third time it is offered, you should accept. The custom may have come from the days of the Potato Famine. Although people had nothing to give, they could offer the hospitality of a cup of tea without embarrassment. By offering a third time, the recipient was assured that accepting the gift would not cause the giver hardship.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Dáil Éireann - doyl + air + uhn

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Sinn Féin - shin + fane


	10. We Are Infinite

_Without love, we are pointless. With it, we are infinite. -_ Eden Butler

 **March 10, 1920**

 **Johnson Mooney and O'Brien Bakery**

Bernadette Ryan stopped rolling the bread dough and eyed her sister.

"What?"

"When are you going to bring your young man around to meet Mam?" she asked. "You've been walking out for three months now…don't you think it's about time?"

Kathleen blushed. Bernadette had become her ally of late; covering for her when she was late for dinner, making excuses when they didn't arrive home together. She had never expected such kindness from her older sister, or such deviousness either, but families were funny like that. At the bottom of everything was the love they had for each other, and the hopes for happiness too. When Bernadette had finally sat Kathleen down and insisted on a full report, she had tried to evade the questions, but it was no use.

"Look, Katie, I know you like this young man, and he seems smitten with you. I'm not exactly ancient, you know, and I want the best for you. In fact," she said, her eyes going misty, "if you can find somebody as wonderful as my Dan, you'll be very lucky! That's all I want for you." And so Kathleen had brought Deaglan into the bakery kitchen and introduced them, and Bernadette had pronounced him fit to date her sister—after giving him a thorough grilling on his family, his ancestors several generations past, and his plans for the future. Her eyes had rounded when he had told her about his uncle Michael, and she had laughed out loud.

"Oh, Deaglan, please bring your uncle and your sister to dinner when you come!", she choked. "And Katie, make sure Michael's there…I want to see his face when he realizes that Michael Collins is in his own house!" And so it was arranged.

 **March 12, 1920**

 **The Branson Home**

Deaglan and his uncle and sister arrived at the Branson home on Friday, and were comfortably ensconced in the sitting room when Michael got home from the docks. He skidded in, calling, "I'll just go wash up!", and then did a double take at seeing the three strangers. "Uh, sorry," he said, catching his mother's frown. "Hello." He came into the sitting room, extended a hand. "Michael Branson."

"This is my friend Deaglan," announced Kathleen, pride shining on her face. "And this is his sister Aislin, and his uncle, Mr. Collins." Michael noted that the boy was sitting rather too close to his baby sister, and that the girl was very pretty. He held his hand out to the older man…and then stopped. "Mr. Collins? M-Michael Collins?" His voice held awe as he looked at the face that had graced newspapers—and wanted posters—all over the city for more than a year.

Bernadette and Daniel grinned. This was going to be rich. Michael Collins _was_ the IRA, and had been their Michael's hero since long before he'd joined the army. Kathleen's new lad couldn't have chosen a better way to ensure his acceptance with her brother if he had tried! In fact, Bernadette thought, chuckling to herself, she wasn't sure that Michael even remembered that the other two Collinses were there. He was well and truly gone, lost in his hero worship.

Claire was not quite so sanguine about having the great man in her home. She had resigned herself to her son's being in the IRA, for the most part because there wasn't anything she could do about it, but also because she trusted Michael's character and knew that under all that prickliness and passion was still the sweet child she had raised. He had a brain, and he usually managed to use it. But there were times, like when he'd let his sister Maire be his spy and allowed her to put herself in grievous danger, that she wanted to ring his neck.

And she could feel the magnetism of this man, could undertand how he had been able to inspire so many young Irishmen to follow him through hell. It frightened her, brought out the mother bear instinct like nothing she had felt before. She had not felt so apprehensive, not even with Evan Langdon, and he was supposed to be the enemy! It left her feeling vulnerable and unsure, as if she were floundering in deep water, and Claire Branson was not used to floundering. She did not like it one bit.

Oh, God! Claire thought suddenly. Evan! Maire was bringing Evan Langdon to dinner tonight! What would happen when the two met? Well, nothing would actually _happen_ , was the grim thought, because this was her house and she could invite anyone she liked, and they'd better behave with dignity or else! But she couldn't control the tension, and she knew it. Claire remembered the last time tension had ruined a dinner…when Sybil's parents had visited and Maire had let loose on Lord Grantham. What a kerfuffle that had been! She had nearly tanned her daughter's hide after that one.

Well, what was done was done. It was too late to univite Evan, and she hadn't known who this Deaglan boy's family was; how could she? She looked at Bernadette, who looked back in all innocence, and thought she might be having a word or two with her oldest daughter before this night was through!

To her amazement, the evening was not a complete disaster, after all. Maire and Evan had arrived, he in his crisp British uniform—wasn't he allowed to wear anything else, for heavens sake?—and Michael Collins had not batted an eye. Introductions were made, hands shaken, no bombs went off and no firearms were pulled out and demonstrated. In fact, Mr. Collins seemed to be trying to stay in the background, attempting to let Deaglan shine. Claire realized that he did not want to overshadow his nephew in front of Kathleen, and her heart warmed a bit toward him for the effort.

For his part, Evan seemed unaware of who Michael Collins was. He never said much anyway, and when he did his voice was low and shy. She wondered if he was trying to hide his accent; now that she thought about it, he was much more animated when Sybil and Tom were around. Sybil had behaved much the same way when she first arrived in Dublin, as if she were afraid that her very speech might give offense. And who was she kidding? Claire thought. Sybil's Englishness _had_ offended them at first. It had been a very rough go for her darling daughter-in-law, but Sybil was tough and strong, and she'd had Tom. Claire hoped that Evan was strong enough to weather the storm, because she was finding that she liked him, very much.

 **March 29, 1920**

 **A Street in Dublin**

Tom Branson stood in the doorway of the drygoods store, watching. He had been following the five men for some blocks now, wondering at their business in this part of Dublin. They wore curiously mismatched uniforms of dark green and khaki, which would have made them objects of ridicule except for the fact that they represented a new breed of British soldier, one born of hatred and evil, feared by the people of Ireland like no other before them. They tended to travel in packs like jackals, and preyed on innocent citizens simply because they could. They were the Black and Tans.

Tom's new paper formulated lists of atrocities against Irish citizens and sent them abroad to foreign journalists, with the hope of enlisting aid for the cause. It was a noble venture, and it was working. More and more reports were making it out of Ireland, more and more countries beginning to cry out against the oppression. But it was dangerous. The fledgeling _Irish Bulletin_ did not have the manpower to send teams of reporters out on assignment, and thus Tom found himself once again alone and outnumbered. He knew how to avoid detection, but things did not always turn out as one would wish. And he had a very bad feeling about this group of soldiers.

Tom had another hour before he could call it a day and go home to Sybil; the knowledge kept him going when things got difficult. He knew it was the same for her; they often discussed how they would stop during their busy work day just to send a mental note one to the other, and had found that usually this happened at the exact same time in the day, their messages crossing each other on the way. It should have been eerie, but it wasn't. It was love. And now Tom sent a simple note to his wife through the Dublin air… _I love you, more than life. See you soon._ And received one a moment later… _Take care of yourself, darling. You are my life._ It was enough; it had to be.

Tom brought himself back to the task at hand; the Black and Tans had stopped in the doorway of a shoemaker's, but they did not seem interested in that establishment. Instead, their interest was focused on a group of four youths across the street. The young men—barely more than children, really—were engaged in a lively contest of arm wrestling at a table outside _O'Leary's Flower Shop._ They were taking wagers and laughing, oblivious to the three British soldiers across the street.

As Tom watched, another lad emerged from the shop with a bouquet of flowers, to be set upon by his friends who showered him with good-natured teasing. The boy with the flowers put them on the table in a mock show of anger, and put his fists up as if to challenge his friends to a fight. A taller boy picked up the flowers and paraded around pretending to be the young man's sweetheart, sighing and making kissing noises in his direction. Tom grinned. Had he ever been that young? Certainly never that carefree! He envied them their ability to find enjoyment even in the midst of the war, but worried that someone should remind them that alertness in these times was always necessary.

And then his fear became reality. The five soldiers ambled across the street and formed a ring around the youths, who froze, dismay and confusion replacing the merriment that had been there a moment before. Tom took out his notebook and began to write. He prayed that the men would move on to more important business, looking around in hopes of seeing a constable or two actually working. The RIC were a part of the problem, but they would sometimes step in to police a situation like this if the Black and Tans overstepped on their watch. But there was no one.

One of the soldiers stepped forward and yanked the flowers from the lad who held them. He sneered, threw them on the ground and stomped them into dust and torn petals. The boy who had bought the bouquet protested, "Hey! What'd ya do that for?" It was the sign the soldier had been waiting for. He took it as an invitation, pushing the lad up against the wall and placing his face near that of the frightened boy. From his vantage point, Tom could not hear what was said, but the boy's face went white with fear and the other lads became silent. _Stay still!_ Tom begged the boys. _Don't give them a reason…_

And then all hell broke loose. One of the smaller boys made a break for the street, ducking under the arm of a soldier and running down the street in Tom's direction, panic etched on his young face. The nearest soldier calmly pulled his Webley from his pocket, aimed it at the child, and pulled the trigger. The boy went down in the middle of the street and did not move. His friends began screaming, "Billy! No! Get up, Billy!" The soldiers stood impervious, and now all five of them had their revolvers out and pointed at the four remaining boys, who put their hands up above their heads and stood shaking and sobbing, eyes huge with fear and grief.

Tom could no longer stand by, simply recording the cruelty. The boy might still be alive, and someone had to get him to a doctor. People had gathered in doorways, but none came near the scene. He didn't blame them; this was a story that was playing out more and more often, and no one was willing to risk his life at the hands of the Black and Tans. The soldiers had lost interest in the boy in the street, turning back to their remaining victims. It was the only chance Tom would get.

He sprinted to the middle of the street, picket up the small figure, who weighed almost nothing, and slung him over his shoulder. He started back toward an old man who was beckoning him toward the doorway of his shop. As he gained the sidewalk he felt the body of the lad across his shoulder jerk, and Tom felt a sharp stitch in his side, as if he had pulled a muscle. _You're out of shape, Tommy boy_ , he thought, but the next minute he was through the doorway and setting his burden down on the floor. Someone moved to close and lock the door.

There were six people in the shop. "Is anyone a doctor?" Tom gasped, out of breath from his run. He wished Sybil were here, or even that Evan friend of Maire's. They would know what to do.

A young man was already moving forward. "I was a medic in the war," he said, moving to the boy's side. He placed his finger against the child's neck and held it there for a minute, then turned to the others and shook his head. "He's dead," he said in a dull voice. He opened the boy's shirt and gently turned him over. He's been shot twice in the back; death was probably instantaneous."

Tom sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. It had all been for nothing. Those monsters out there had killed another Irish kid in cold blood, and they were going to get away with it. And then he sat up, wincing. Twice? He had been watching—he'd seen the soldier fire only once before the child had fallen in the street. Tom was a reporter; details were his business. He stood up, leaning against the wall as he realized he was having trouble breathing, which was odd; he hadn't run that far. The room seemed to be shrinking, and suddenly he found himself on the floor again, unable to move. Everything slowed. Someone had lowered the lights; it was getting darker.

"Hey! He's bleeding!" came a voice from far away, and Tom felt someone remove his jacket and pull back his shirt to expose his undershirt. He heard gasps, and a woman cried out, her voice on the edge of panic, "Oh God, so much blood!" The medic was doing something, yelling orders, but Tom seemed unable to focus. Something was pressed hard against his side, but he could not feel the pressure.

A coldness spread over his body like icy fingers, causing him to shake as if he had caught a chill. He couldn't see. Why was it so dark? And then, in an instant of stark clarity, he knew. _I'm dying_.

Tom's thoughts drifted to Sybil, to the child he would never know, and a lone tear ran down his face. _I'm sorry, Sybil…I'm so sorry,_ _mo chroi_ _._ He knew he would see her one day…a love like theirs was infinite. But never to hold her again, never to kiss her…he closed his eyes against the pain of it, and as the darkness pulled him away, he sent up a prayer… _Please…take care of my darling…_

* * *

 **A/N:** When the republican campaign against the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) became more violent and successful in late 1919, the British Government realized the need for tougher policing in Ireland. They turned to veterans from the Great War, many of them psychologically damaged from their time in the trenches. Upon their arrival on March 25, 1920, a shortage of RIC uniforms led to the temporary issue of military khaki and rifle green coats that gave the new troops their name, the Black and Tans. It became a term synonymous with brutality and destruction, with particularly savage reprisals against Irish civilians.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Mo chroi (my love) - muh+ khree


	11. Dead Center

_It's a bizarre but wonderful feeling, to arrive dead center of a target you didn't even know you were aiming for. -_ Lois McMaster Bujold

 **March 30, 1920**

 **Mater Misericordiae Hospital**

Heaven was beautiful. A world of white, shining with a light so bright it hurt his eyes. He could see the darkness receding at the approach of the light; God's angels coming to welcome him in? He was a bit surprised to be in Heaven; he hadn't thought he'd been that good. Maybe they were relaxing the standards a bit, now that the Great War was over and clients weren't pouring in so fast.

It had to be Sybil. His darling Sybil had gotten him in somehow. A word from her and God would bypass all his paperwork, welcome him with open arms no matter how flawed he was. Now all he had to do was settle in and wait…wait for her to join him. The selfish part of him hoped it wouldn't be too long, although he wanted her to have a long life, to raise their child with love and joy.

At the thought of the child, he felt a thickness in his throat and tears welled in his eyes. Would the angels let him see his child? Would he be able to check in, watch them together? Would she hear him in her mind like she had when he was alive? Surely God wouldn't take that away from him.

If only this infernal brightness would go away! Something touched his eye, pulling the lid up, and the light intensified. He flinched, and a wave of agony coursed through him, stopping his breath. He froze and the pain receded. Pain? What was that all about? There wasn't supposed to be any pain in Heaven! Was this a test? Maybe he wasn't home free after all. Maybe he was going to have to answer for the bad things he'd done in his life. Well, he supposed that was fair. Heaven couldn't just accept you at your word. Perhaps he'd have to prove himself worthy. Again. It seemed as if he'd been trying to prove his worth all his life; he was used to it. If only this brightness would go away!

"Tom?" An angel's voice murmured, low and husky, sweeter than any music he'd ever heard. It sounded like Sybil's voice. He wondered if all the angels in Heaven sounded like Sybil. He smiled; that would be nice.

"Tom? Darling, I'm here. Shhh, I'm right here." The voice held such hope, such love, he had to see the speaker. Pulling himself together with all the effort he could muster, he forced his eyes to open, just a bit. The angel appeared out of the clouds in his head, wavering before him, radiant smile chasing away the residual darkness at the edge of his vision. Yesss. The angel _looked_ like Sybil, too. Thank you, God. He sighed and closed his eyes again, allowing the tears of relief to squeeze from beneath his lids and fall where they would. Heaven would be bearable after all. The darkness surrounded him again, carried him off into the void.

Something was touching him, wiping the tears from his face. He lay still, letting the gentle fingers move over him like a whisper, enjoying the tender touch of a human hand. The fingers paused at his lips, tracing their lines like a blind artist appraising his work. He began to sense his body, feel his heart beat, hear the quiet hum of machines. Something hurt. He supposed he'd better see what it was. Tom opened one eye.

"Good morning, darling." Sybil sat beside him, holding his hand. Her face looked drawn under her nurse's cap; there were dark circles under her eyes and worry lines creasing her forehead like tiny rivers. The tracks of tears unheeded shadowed her skin, giving her the look of a forlorn waif. He had never seen anything so beautiful. She lifted his hand and kissed it, new tears bursting free to run down her face.

"Wh—wha…?" His voice was a croak, as if rusty from long disuse.

"Shhh, just rest, darling. You're at the Mater. You were hurt, but you're going to be fine."

"H-hurt?" Well, that explained the pain. He could feel it now, a dull ache in the region of his back and side. He moved, and was sorry. The ache exploded into a sharp agony that knifed through his body, leaving him gasping for breath. "Ahhh! Wha…happened?"

Sybil cupped the beloved face in her hands and looked into his pain-filled eyes. It had been so close. She shuddered at the memory of Tom's still body on the stretcher, skin whiter than Claire's Irish lace, towels saturated with his blood. His eyes were closed, his face cold as marble. She had been sure he was dead, had thought her life over in that moment. But thanks to Dr. Walsh and his surgical team, her husband had pulled through. She was one of the lucky ones.

"Lie still, darling. You were shot. You tried to rescue a young boy from the Black and Tans, and they shot you." She bent to kiss him, the touch of her lips feather light. "You nearly died, but a young medic got you to the hospital on time. You were in surgery for three hours. You lost so much blood, Tom; I thought you were leaving me!" Tears appeared again, unbidden, and she swiped them away with an absent gesture.

Dr. Walsh entered the room, clipboard in hand. "So, how's our patient? Ahh, awake at last. About time, too; we need the bed. I'm getting a little weary of sewing Bransons back together!" he said in mock severity. "How many more of you are there, anyway?"

"Well, if this is an example of your handiwork, I'd rather have been left to die, thank you," Tom muttered. "My insides feel like chopped meat. Did you forget to put back something important?"

Sybil laughed, a weak sound of relief and resolved fear. "I'd like to apologise for my husband," she told Dr. Walsh. "He's rather a big baby. Doesn't handle a little pain well at all." She put her hand over Tom's mouth, and giggled as he gave her palm a weak kiss. "Between you and me, I think he's going to live." She removed the hand and grinned at her husband.

"Hmmmph," grumbled Tom. "Easy for _you_ to say!"

 **April 3, 1920**

 **The Branson home**

"More potatoes?" Claire dumped another helping onto Evan Langdon's plate. "You're too thin."

Evan looked at Maire in desperation, but she shrugged her shoulders and grinned across the table at him. So this was how they were going to do it, he thought. Stuff him like a Christmas goose and then roast him. Very crafty, these Irish. He sighed and picked up his fork. He was as brave as any soldier in his regiment, and had seen much that would unnerve another man, but he was petrified of Claire Branson.

The relationship between Evan and Maire had undergone a sea change since the night he had brought her the wig made from her own hair. It had not happened overnight; Maire was not in a good place and Evan had felt as if he were walking on eggshells. That first night Sybil and Claire had stayed close by, afraid that any small misstep might send Maire back into the maelstrom of shame and anxiety that had tormented her for the two weeks since the attack. Their conversation was mundane, innocuous, and for the most part directed at Sybil, as a sort of go-between. But Maire was talking. It was a start.

At the end of the evening, in a shy voice very unlike her own, Maire had asked Evan to come back the next day. And he had—the next day, and the day after that. And a week later she had met him at the door wearing the wig, and announced that she was going back to work. Her recovery had been nothing short of miraculous, and Claire Branson had decided to start feeding the stray soldier who had saved her daughter's sanity.

He couldn't be there often; his attention to duty had already come under scrutiny by his commanding officers, and he had to be careful. They could not be seen together in public; with the war raging in Dublin and what had already happened to Maire, and just last week to her brother Tom, it would have painted a target on his back. Michael might tolerate this particular British soldier in his home, but Michael knew the story, knew how Maire had been and how she was now because of this man's determination. The rest of the IRA had no such tolerance, and many were hotheads who tended to shoot first and ask later.

Evan had another reason for concern— Lieutenant Robert Martin was missing. Evan had not shared this information with Maire; the army did not want it known, but the circumstances of his disappearance were suspicious. Martin was not well-liked, and except for a tight group of cronies even the other officers tended to give him a wide berth. The lieutenant's comrades claimed to know nothing; they insisted that he had simply disappeared in December while on patrol somewhere in the countryside. Searches had proved fruitless, but until he was found Evan could not feel that Maire would ever be safe.

So Evan Langdon took his dinner at Murphy's Pub as often as he could, and stopped by the Bransons' if he was not on duty at the army medical center. Always under cover of darkness, always looking over his shoulder. It was no way to live, and certainly no way to love. Because Evan was in love, he realized with dazzling clarity…in love with an Irish republican. So he did what he had to do to see her as often as he could, and to keep watch over her.

Maire had stopped wearing the wig weeks ago. Her hair was growing out, curling around her face and lending her a pixie look that Evan found endearing. No one seemed to think it odd that she had suddenly cut her beautiful hair so short—she was Maire Branson, they shrugged. She still flinched when a British uniform came through the door…unless it was Evan. She continued to plunk his drinks down in front of him with a glare, but before she turned away he was treated to a wink…if no one was watching.

Maire wasn't sure how she felt about Evan Langdon. She enjoyed his company. She was grateful beyond reckoning for what he had done; but at the same time she felt beholden to him, and that rankled. She didn't want to owe him. She didn't want to feel drawn to his lovely eyes, and she most definitely did not want to feel this stirring in the region of her heart…or any other regions. But you couldn't always have what you wanted, could you?

 **April 4, 1920**

 **The Branson Flat**

Edith ran her finger over the bare skin of Patrick's chest. I am a wanton woman, she thought in delight. I have given myself to a man who is the exact opposite of everything I am supposed to want…and I feel better than I have ever felt in my life. Who would ever have guessed that such a thing was possible? She hadn't been looking for this; it was a bizarre and wonderful feeling to find yourself dead center of a target you weren't even aiming for, and to know it was right.

Patrick stirred and opened his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that looked straight into her soul and found it worthy. He grinned, a lopsided Branson grin that melted her heart and left her breathless. She suspected that he knew exactly what she was thinking, and it made her blush.

Patrick watched the color come up in Edith's face. She was so beautiful when she was flustered. She was always beautiful, graceful as a swan and elegant as a—well, as an aristocrat—but he liked her best this way…her curls out of their customary pins, her face devoid of makeup, her clothing…off. He reached for her, pulling her down on top of him, whispering nonsense as he kissed her mouth, her neck, her breasts. She came to him as if for the first time…as if she had been waiting a lifetime for this moment, for this man. And when he took her, she was complete.

Later they drank wine and sat in front of the fire, wrapped only in a quilt. It was as if they had been marooned together on a deserted island, just the two of them with no hope of rescue—or of discovery. And that much was true. They had had the flat to themselves for almost a week; since Tom's near fatal encounter with the Black and Tans, Sybil had been staying around the clock at the Mater. She had stopped by on Tuesday for some necessities, had apologised to her sister for abandoning her and told her that Tom's mother and sisters would love to see her as often as she could visit. Edith had not gone once.

They had told no one of their relationship, not yet. It wasn't that they were frightened of the reaction such an announcement would induce…well, not entirely…but everything was still so new with them, so magical, and as long as it was a secret it belonged only to them. It could not last, of course, but for now they were like children playing house. Living a fairy tale.

Edith sighed. Tom would be in hospital for at least three more days, and then he would be home recuperating for another week. Of course she was glad that he was on the mend, but he would be…underfoot. She giggled. Underfoot in his own home…but still…the idyll would be over; they would be back to snatching moments here and there, or pretending to be friends over dinner at the Bransons'. She supposed she should stop moaning and enjoy the rest of this stolen week while they had it.

Patrick's hands were doing something under the quilt—something quite lovely. Edith looked into his innocent blue eyes, smiled, and then put her arms around him and rolled them both off the couch and onto the hearthrug. Entangled in the quilt, they explored some very enthusiastic activities in its enveloping folds, activities involving arms and legs and tongues and lips, laughing until they couldn't breathe. With such strenuous and noisy exercise going on, it was understandable that they would be unable to hear the door opening, or the footsteps, or the gasp at the door to the sitting room.

"Oh! What…oh…my God! Edith?" Edith poked her head out of the quilt to see her sister Sybil standing in the doorway, a look of absolute astonishment on her face.

"Um…oh…hullo." Edith stammered, her face red as a summer tomato. Another head emerged from the blanket.

"Hi, Sybil," said Patrick. He gave his sister-in-law his best smile—the one he saved for near-death situations. "You're home. That's grand."

* * *

 **A/N:** Athough there were some large scale engagements between the IRA and the RIC/British troops in Ireland, the Irish War Of Independence consisted primarily of guerrilla warfare: attacks and ambushes by one side or the other, followed by reprisals. In the month of December 1919 alone, Constable Edward Bolger was killed in an ambush as he walked unarmed to his barracks, an assassination attempt against British General John French left one IRA volunteer dead and three RIC men injured, and at least two British soldiers were killed by the accidental discharge of colleague's rifles. It is not then so surprising that Lieutenant Martin could disappear without a trace.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Maire - my + ra


	12. Then There was You

_We met by chance, one split decision to turn right instead of left made no sense at the time but it felt right, and then there was you._ \- Nikki Rowe

 **April 5, 1920**

 **Mater Misericordiae Hospital**

"My brother?" sputtered Tom, sitting straight up in the bed and wincing at the sudden movement. "And your sister?"

"Be careful, darling," Sybil chided, "you'll pull out your stitches."

"Never mind me." Tom's voice was ominous. "My baby brother is going to need stitches when I get through with him! What was the little alley cat thinking?"

Sybil giggled. Men! "When you get through with him? Why don't you try to walk more than ten feet before you get out your sword and shield, darling? You couldn't beat up baby Fiona in your condition!

"Besides, I don't think it was one-sided, Tom. My sister looked thoroughly pleased with herself. Embarrassed to have been caught, but quite happy."

"But how did this happen? Why didn't we notice anything was going on?" Tom wriggled to the edge of the bed and shuffled into his slippers. He stood up, swaying.

"And where do you think you're going, dear?" Sybil crossed her arms over her chest and regarded her husband with a narrow eye.

Tom sat back down on the bed and gave her a sulky look. "I've been stuck in this bed for a week now. I'm still weak as a kitten, and if I don't get some exercise I'll never get out of here, much less have the strength to kick Patrick's arse!" He offered the most pitiful look he could muster. "You should be helping! How can you be so harsh?"

His wife laughed, and threw her hands up in the air. "All right! If you promise to go easy, I'll let you walk the whole length of the corridor today…but don't blame me when you can't get out of bed tomorrow!"

As they shuffled down the hospital corridor, the conversation turned back to Edith and Patrick.

"I just don't understand it," Tom muttered. "They have nothing at all in common. I mean, she's an aristocrat, and he's just a poor boy from Dublin. What could they possibly talk about?"

"Well, from what I saw, they weren't actually doing much talking," Sybil giggled. "And I seem to remember another aristocrat who got on famously with a poor boy from Dublin. Everyone was quite surprised and rather put out when they announced their relationship, if I recall." She laughed at the wistful look on his face. Those memories were sacred for both of them.

"Yes, but we spent _years_ just talking!" he objected. "We didn't toss off our clothes and get it on in the Renault a few months after we met, did we? I know Patrick has been a ladies' man since he was sixteen, but Edith? I never thought she had it in her! I mean, I always suspected that Mary had a wild streak that might come out one day, but Edith seemed such a mouse." Tom shook his head in bewilderment. "It'll never last, you know."

"Tom! I'll bet that everyone back at Downton is shocked that _we_ have lasted this long!" Sybil stopped in the middle of the hospital corridor, reached up and pulled his head down to give him a long, passionate kiss, ignoring the shocked look on the face of an elderly man who inched by pushing a walker. "How long do you give _us_?" she whispered, when she came up for air.

"If you do that again," he breathed, "in my weakened condition, I'd say probably another few minutes. But…" He put his arms around his wife and laid his cheek on the top of her head, "I could be wrong. We should probably test my theory, to be sure." And he cupped her face and covered her mouth with his own. _Not so weak,_ thought Sybil.

"Why can't I have _that_ nurse!" came a querulous voice from down the corridor.

 **April 7, 1920**

 **The Collins Home**

Michael's face was impatient as he met Kathleen at the front door. "C'mon, Katie! You shouldn't keep Deaglan waiting! It sends the wrong message!"

Kathleen snorted. "I don't remember you caring so much about Deaglan's feelings a couple of weeks ago. In fact, you never seemed eager to walk me to his house before—Mam had to make you!"

"Not true," his tone was lofty. "I didn't mind; I just didn't know him as well then. I like your lad; I think he's perfect for you. I do!" he insisted when she continued to laugh at him.

"You mean you think his uncle Michael is perfect for _you_ , don't you? You want to sit at the great man's knee and learn all about…let me see…accounting, is it?"

"Don't make fun, Katie. Michael Collins is the greatest man in Ireland. We're going to win our independence from England, and he's most of the reason why. And I just want to learn as much as I can from him, that's all!"

"And what about Deaglan's sister? She's rather pretty, don't you think? Those big brown eyes, and all those dark curls?"

"Who?" Michael looked confused for a moment. "Oh, Aislinn. Yeah, I suppose." He gave his sister a sidelong look. "Don't go trying to play matchmaker, sis. She's not my type. Too bossy. And she reads too much." He shook his head. "Besides, I don't have time for women. That's Patrick's territory."

Kathleen jumped on that one. "Oh, and isn't it amazing about Patrick and Edith? Carrying on right under all our noses, and nobody guessed. Not even Sybil! Isn't it romantic?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Romantic. Anyway, we're here. Do you think he's home?" Michael ran up the steps.

Kathleen rolled her eyes and followed him. He was useless! Her brothers were all so different; good thing she loved all of them, because they drove her to distraction, each in his own way.

Aislinn looked up from a book as they came into the house. "Deaglan's in the kitchen, Kathleen. He made you something." She grimaced. "Better take a tiny bite; Deck's not known for his cooking." She grinned. "He must really like you; I've never seen him bake before." She clucked her tongue. "I think he assumes that because you work at a bakery, you eat cookies all day. Men are so stupid!" She laughed and went back to her book, ignoring Michael. He didn't even notice, because Ireland's minister of finance was just coming down the stairs. Michael Collins smiled at the Bransons.

"Hello, Kathleen. Better hurry, before Deaglan burns down the house." He gave his charming, effortless grin. "Michael, care to join me for a whiskey?"

As the two men moved away and into her uncle's office, Aislinn's eyes followed them. She sighed, pushed her curls out of her face and tried to return her attention to her book, but her thoughts were elsewhere. That Michael Branson was really quite good-looking, she thought. Shame he was such a stiffnecked git. And anyway, she was _not_ interested in any of those IRA boys. Fighting and violence—and _talking_ about fighting and violence—might be romantic to some people, but she lived with it every day of her life, and all that passion could be a bit tiring. Aislinn realized her book was upside down, and righted it. Too bad…he was _really_ handsome.

 **April 18, 1920**

 **Murphy's Pub**

Evan watched as Maire bustled around the pub, carrying eight pints without effort and treating each customer as if he were the most important man in the world. Each Irish customer, of course. There weren't as many British soldiers or RIC policemen at Murphy's anymore—not since the Black and Tans had arrived. It was almost as if the RIC was ashamed of its new recruits and wanted to keep them out of the public eye. Or maybe it was the way the regulars tended to leave the bar as soon as more than one Black and Tan walked through the door. Whatever the reason, Evan was just as happy to be in the minority here.

Maire skirted a table, her skirt swishing, and slapped the groping hand of a patron who had imbibed a bit too much tonight. Usually Tim Connelly knew better, but he had a soft spot for Maire, and when he was in his cups he forgot just who it was he was dealing with. He took the rebuff without rancor, giving her a sloppy grin as she passed. Just another night at Murphy's.

She slid into the seat across from Evan, who graced her with his soft hazel gaze. God, she loved his eyes, she thought. His soul shone through them…the honesty that formed the bedrock of his character and sent her pulse racing. Evan was certainly handsome—tall and lean, his dark brown hair waving softly over his forehead and those gorgeous eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled, but that wasn't what drew her to him. It was his simple decency.

Maire prized honesty above all other traits. She had been raised with men who possessed integrity in spades, so from childhood she had been conditioned to expect the same from other males she met. But in this she had been sorely disappointed. First there had been Sammy Herlihy when she was fifteen. All right, he'd been just a lad, but she had still expected him to mean it when he told her she was special…until he'd pushed her up against the schoolyard fence and tried to put his hand up her dress. She'd run home in tears, and Sammy had been given an education in the persons of Michael and Patrick Branson.

She had been shy around men after that, and none had kept her attention. Then last year she had met Cian O'Neill, the charming older man who had hung on her every word—so polite and considerate, and all the time he had been trying to get information that he could use to destroy her family. That was it for her. There hadn't been another man who had piqued her interest…until Evan Langdon. Sweet, compassionate…British.

And that was the problem. It was wrong, and she knew it. He had shown her nothing but kindness and respect…hell, he had saved her from those monsters…and she really, really liked him. Maybe more than liked. Maire sighed. If she put so much importance on honesty, perhaps she should try being honest with herself. The truth was, despite all her efforts, something was developing in the part of her heart where Evan resided—something beyond friendship or gratitude. And she didn't want to have such feelings for an Englishman. She refused to allow them.

It worked for Sybil and Tom, and apparently Patrick had been sharing more than conversation with Sybil's sister Edith, which was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard, but Maire knew that she was not like them. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get past Evan's Britishness. How could anything work between them? She would never go to England, and how could he stay here in Ireland? Neither of them would find acceptance in the other's world.

"What are you thinking about so hard?" Evan asked her. "You're off in another time and space."

"It's nothing. I'm just tired." And where was _her_ honesty, when it counted?

"Well, your shift is almost up, isn't it? I'll walk you home tonight."

"No! Evan, you can't! You'll get in trouble if you're seen out there with me!"

He sighed and straightened his shoulders, looking straight into her eyes with his steady gaze.

"I don't care. I've made a decision. My time with the army is almost up, and when it's over I'm not going to reenlist. I can't stand what's happening here any longer. I'm going to go back to Cornwall and finish my medical training. I can be of more use as a doctor."

Maire felt an electric shock go through her at his words. He was leaving! Leaving Ireland…leaving _her_. Suddenly she wanted to burst into tears at the thought of losing him. She wanted to throw herself at him, go down on her knees and beg him to stay.

She did none of those things, of course. She stared into his eyes, wanting to memorize everything about his face, his voice, his expressions and mannerisms. Imprint his image on her memory for when he was gone. She felt lost, like a fish thrown up on the bank, unable to breathe.

"I-I'll miss you," she said finally, her voice desolate.

"I want you to come with me." His voice was soft and low, trembling slightly.

Had she heard right? "What?"

"I never expected to find someone like you," he said, rushing his words now, as if time were the enemy. "I remember the first time I saw you—I almost didn't come into the pub that night. In a split second I made a decision to stop and have a drink. It didn't make sense; I was tired, I needed sleep, not beer, but it felt right…and so I walked in…and then there was you."

Maire was silent, frozen in place by his words. She stared at him in shock, unable to speak.

"I'm asking you to marry me, Maire Branson. I love you and I want to spend my life with you. I don't care where; if you don't want to come home with me I'm willing to stay here with you, and go to medical school in Ireland." He took her unresisting hand in his own. "I love you," he repeated. "I will love you no matter where I am…no matter where _we_ are…"

Something in her eyes stopped him. Ice began to form in his veins as they stared at each other for a long moment. Then Maire spoke, in a voice not her own—a stranger's voice.

"Evan, I-I can't—

"Corporal Evan Langdon?" Two British officers stood next to their table. Where had they come from? thought Maire in confusion. All she could think about was what he had just said and what she must say to him. And then one of the officers spoke, and his words sent her mind reeling.

"Corporal Evan Langdon, I am arresting you for the murder of Lieutenant Robert Martin. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Of all the players in the struggle for Irish Independence, Michael Collins was the most formidable. As director of intelligence for the IRA, he crippled the British intelligence system in Ireland and replaced it with his own network of spies and assassins. At the same time, in his role as minister of finance for the republican government, he raised and gave out huge sums of money on behalf of the rebel cause. Although many attempts were made, the British were never able to capture Collins or stop his work. He was known colloquially as "The Big Fellow", and was idolized by republican Irishmen. His exploits, as well as his charm, intelligence, ruthlessness and daring, made him a legend in his country.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra


	13. The Thing with Feathers

_Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all. -_ Emily Dickinson

 **May 20, 1920**

 **Daniel's Workshop**

Edith wandered around the pristine workroom, touching the smooth wood on dressers, cabinets, and moulding. She felt Patrick's anxious eyes on her, knew how important her opinion was to him…and it warmed her heart. He was a true artist, she thought in awe, although she shouldn't have been surprised. The hands that caressed her skin when they were alone were an artist's hands; the beauty resident in his soul shone through his eyes every time he looked at her. And he thought her beautiful! It meant everything.

"Darling, these pieces are lovely." She stopped before a small desk, his signature ivy pattern gracing the edges of the small drawers and the front of the smooth drop front. Graceful cabriole legs curved outward and ended in small pad feet. A half-finished Queen Anne chair stood in front of the desk, waiting for the artist to release its beauty. Edith sighed. He had found his calling. And she…

"I know what I want to do." She turned to face him, suddenly shy. If he laughed at her…but she knew he wouldn't. He would be honest, but he wouldn't laugh. His kindness was another thing she loved about him.

He said nothing, waiting. Of all people, he knew how to wait for inspiration; knew that the right occupation would not be rushed. And he knew how difficult it was for her, an upper-class Englishwoman in Dublin. She was not Sybil, confident of her skills and ferocious in her determination. Edith was unsure, tentative, likely to wilt under the pressure of class predjudice and rejection. Whatever she had in mind, it would be a struggle to achieve here in Ireland. But he would help, if he could.

"I want to teach."

"Teach?" Patrick blinked. "Well, that's grand, love." He hesitated. "And who would you be teaching?"

"Children, silly! Young ones. I've certainly had enough governesses that I know how it's done, and I know I could do a much better job, too!" She eyed him intently. "What do you think?"

"Well, um, I know you'd do a great job. You're smart, and funny, and I would certainly have wanted to go to school more often if _you_ were my teacher…" he gave her a lascivious stare and she rolled her eyes. "But…"

"But what?" Her voice took on an edge. He'd better tread easy here, Patrick thought.

"Well, I'm just wonderin' where you'd be getting these students," he said carefully. "Working class parents send their children to the public school, because it's free, and don't the wealthy lot have those governesses you talk about?"

She deflated like a balloon. "You're right. It was a silly idea."

"No! No, it isn't silly at all!" he protested, crossing to take her hands in his. "Nothing worth doing is easy. But you'd have to go to a training school, you know."

"I know. I've been looking into it. The biggest problem is that I'm not Catholic, but there is a training college on Marlborough Street that's run by the Presbyterians, and it's a good one."

"Well, the biggest problem might be that you're not _Irish_ ," Patrick said. "Getting trained isn't the problem; you're clever and educated. Tom might be able to help you there; he has connections all over the place now." He paused.

"It's getting someone to _hire_ an Englishwoman that won't be easy. Remember how much trouble Sybil had getting a job? And she wasn't looking to teach the children of Irish parents."

Edith looked crestfallen. "It's a ridiculous idea, isn't it?" she asked. And then she straightened. "But I'm not going back to England any time soon, so I'd better figure out a way to make it work!"

"That's the spirit!" Patrick told her. "And I'm very glad you're not going back to England, because I don't think that chauffeur job is still open…and you're not going anywhere without me!"

 **May 22, 1920**

 **Shopping in Dublin**

"She's a wild one!" Tom felt his hand jump where he had placed it on his wife's rounded stomach. "She's going to be just like her mother."

"She?" And how do you know it's a she?" Sybil giggled. Since the baby had begun to move, she had difficulty keeping Tom's hands off the growing mound that was their child. Well, keeping Tom's hands off her had always been difficult, but not actually a _problem_ —or at least not one she minded. Still, the baby's antics were not quite so amusing to her as they were to him. He—she knew it was a boy—kept her awake many nights, with his constant kicking and flailing. Dr. Walsh was very understanding when she took naps during her work day, but Sybil was beginning to understand why women were encouraged to stop working early in a pregnancy.

" _He_ is going to be just like his father!" she said firmly. "He's already a rebel. Has opinions about how I should move, what I should eat, whether I should sleep. Doesn't think I need that last bit at all." She gave her husband a sidelong look. "Just like his father."

Tom grinned and pulled her close. They were taking a rare day just for themselves, searching the secondhand shops for a cot. The baby was due in early August, and Sybil knew that she'd be too cumbersome to do anything but waddle if they waited much longer. But they'd had to wait until Tom was strong enough to manage the adventure.

And so here they were, having a great deal of fun but little luck in their quest. Everything they saw was too old, or too ugly, or too _something_ , at least in Sybil's opinion, and so far they'd come up empty. They had been to five shops already, and Tom was beginning to think that Sybil didn't _want_ to find a cot.

"Are you being particularly choosy for some reason that men aren't privy to?" he asked her, after she'd rejected a very nice cot that seemed strong enough and only had a few bite marks on its rails.

She sighed. "No, but this is our baby, and I don't want him to have to grow up in a bed that's been eaten by another child, or scratched up, or one that squeaks so loudly that the poor thing will be terrified into nightmares!" She gave her husband a rebellious look. Tom rolled his eyes at her.

" _I_ grew up in a secondhand cot," he pointed out. "Mam bought it at a shop just like this one before Bernadette was born, and then it went to me, and to all the siblings, and now Fiona is sleeping just fine in it. I don't remember any of us suffering from nightmares, and bite marks give it character. You're just being…aristocratic." He put his nose in the air in a perfect imitation of Mary, and Sybil laughed in spite of herself.

She sighed. He was right, as usual. Damn, why did he have to be so reasonable all the time? She was fat, and hot, and she didn't want to be reasonable. She was lugging around a whole human, and it was only going to get worse. Let Tom try it for awhile; he'd change his tune quick enough.

But Sybil could not maintain any kind of ill humor for long, especially not with her adorable husband appraising her with his earnest blue eyes. Would she ever get tired of that face? She hoped their son would look exactly like him; a miniature Tom Branson would be just perfect. With an effort, she turned back to the issue at hand, hoping to distract him from her lack of cot enthusiasm.

"Do you remember the last time we went shopping for a bed?" Sybil's voice was soft in Tom's ear. "We had to try them all out until we found the strongest, quietest one."

Well, I'm not climbing into any of these cots to see if they're strong enough," Tom declared. "And anyway, that excursion is the reason for our shopping trip today, darlin'. If we hadn't been so successful that day, we wouldn't have spent so much time in that bed, and you wouldn't be…well…" Sybil was laughing, clutching her side, and suddenly she bent over double.

"Love?" Tom asked in concern. "Are you all right?" He tried to put his arm around her, but she slapped him away.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "But stop making me laugh, you awful man! You know what your son does to me when I laugh!" She straightened slowly. "Darling, go find the proprietor of this fine establishment and ask him if he has a WC. And tell him he'd better!"

 **May 25, 1920**

 **St. Stephen's Green, Dublin**

"It's been over a month, Michael. He's stuck in that horrible jail for something he didn't do, and nobody seems to want to do anything about it!" Maire's face was bleak. The siblings sat on a bench in St. Stephen's Green, overlooking a lovely pond, but neither of them was focused on the natural beauty of the place. The warm air and soft breeze did nothing to calm Maire's troubled mind.

Michael was quiet, afraid to say the wrong thing in the face of his sister's anger and despair. It was true that Evan Langdon had been languishing in Mountjoy Prison for weeks now; the British army had nowhere to house its own soldiers accused of violent crimes, and besides, Evan was suspected of killing a superior officer over his treatment of an Irish republican, so he received little sympathy from his own people. Mountjoy held mostly IRA and republican prisoners, who looked on a British soldier in their midst with curiosity and contempt. Evan was truly alone.

But the truth was, Michael thought, he wasn't sure that Evan _hadn't_ done what he'd been accused of. He knew how the man felt about Maire, and hell, _he_ would have wanted to kill the man who had attacked her, would have cheerfully strangled him with his bare hands. This Lieutenant Martin had been the worst of his type—as bad as the Black and Tans—he had deserved to die.

But he didn't think Langdon had done it. Killing another man in cold blood just wasn't in his nature; he was a healer, wanted to become a doctor. Michael couldn't imagine him stalking and killing one of his own countrymen, no matter what the man had done. But men did strange things for love.

Evan had told Sybil, after Maire's attack, that he would "take care of" the people responsible, and Martin _was_ dead—found in a shallow grave in the woods outside of Cork, shot through the heart. He had been dead since late November. And there were eyewitnesses who had sworn to having seen a man resembling Evan Langdon in the vicinity at the time of the murder. Circumstantial at best, but coupled with his connection to Maire, it was damning. Evan was in real trouble.

"I don't know what we can do, Maire," Michael told her. "He's not Irish. The IRA is not going to help a British soldier, and we don't know anyone in the British army who would listen to us. We're at war with the people who are accusing him, but he's British so we're supposed to be at war with him too—or at least that's how it works out. It's a real mess!"

He did not tell her his private thoughts, that he thought the army might take the opportunity to make an example of Evan; to use him as a cautionary story. _This_ is what happens to soldiers who associate with the Irish, soldiers who turn on their own people. Michael was very much afraid that there would be little investigation of the charges and no interest at all in whether or not he was innocent. Unless some sort of miracle occurred, Evan Langdon was headed for the gallows.

Maire had been looking down at her hands, white-knuckled in her lap, but now she looked up at her brother. "I _know_ he didn't do it, Michael. I wouldn't mind if he had, but I know him, and he couldn't have done this!" Tears welled in her eyes and she brushed them away angrily. "There has to be someone who can speak for him!"

Michael had never seen his sister like this. She'd been through so much, and he'd certainly seen her angry plenty of times—Good Lord, that time with Lord Grantham had been a to-do for the ages—but this was different. She was deathly afraid for this man, and Michael wondered if there was more to it…

"Maire…"

"I love him." Maire's voice trembled. "I'm in love with him, Michael, and he doesn't know. He told me he wanted to marry me, and I was going to turn him down…just because he's English…and then they arrested him and now I may never get the chance to tell him how I really feel!" Her voice was filled with pain. "I blew it, Michael. He's all alone and he's in this trouble because of me!" She broke down, the steel will crumbling under the weight of her guilt and fear.

Michael pulled his sister close and put his arms around her, letting her tears soak his jacket. He put his chin on her head and thought… this truly _was_ a mess.

Above his sister's head Michael watched a bird skim over the clear water, its wings fluttering, gliding on an invisible current. He remembered a poem the sisters had made him memorize in school—it seemed like centuries ago. Some English poet. _Hope is the thing with feathers…_ and he knew what he was going to do.

Everything he'd told his sister was true; the IRA would never help Evan on its own…but one man could…one man who _was_ the IRA. He would go to Michael Collins.

* * *

 **A/N:** Until 1883 the National Board refused to recognise any teacher training college except Marlborough Street, which had established a college for women in 1844. Marlborough Street was predominantly Presbyterian, although it accepted women from any denomination.

 **A/N:** Mountjoy Prison saw a lot of activity during the Irish War of Independence. Some of the leaders involved with the republican cause were held there, and many prisoners were hanged during the years 1919-1921. Cells were small and conditions primitive, and various escape and rescue attempts took place during the war. On 14 May 1921, an IRA team mounted an attempt to rescue IRA soldier Sean McEoin, who was under sentence of death, from Mountjoy, using a captured armoured car to gain access to the prison, but the plan was discovered and they had to shoot their way out.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Maire - my + ra


	14. Unarmed Truth

_I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word. -_ Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

 **June 10, 1920**

 **Mountjoy Prison**

Evan Langdon sat with his back to the wall, waiting. They would be coming for him; it was only a matter of time. He had not slept a full night since he'd been brought here, understanding that to sleep might leave him open to attack. He was a bit curious as to where it would come from, but too tired to care much anymore. He had spoken to no one, afraid to let them hear his English accent, but they all knew. He wasn't sure he _could_ speak, after being silent for so long.

The prisoners, most of them Irish republicans, some IRA, had made no secret of their disgust, and there were no other Englishmen in Mountjoy prison. A British soldier accused of a crime would normally have been held in the barracks, but his case was so serious, the crime in their eyes so heinous, that they wanted him locked away out of their sight until they could decide what to do with him. No, not what…that was a given. He would be hanged, the penalty for murder of a police officer. The question was when.

Evan was a bit surprised that it was taking them so long; he had expected to be executed rather quickly once it had become apparent that no one was taking his protestations of innocence seriously. But it had been a month and a half, if his tally marks on the wall of the cell were correct, and still no one had come. He had stopped caring long ago. His thoughts now were only of Maire.

She had been going to say no; he knew that much. The look of pity in her eyes had shattered him, but he should have known. How could he have expected someone so passionately Irish to ever fall in love with him? He had mistaken gratitude and a growing friendship for the stirrings of love, that was all. He was a fool. He wasn't suicidal, but the crushing of his hope for a life with Maire was almost worse than the impending rope. He had thought that if he came to her with unarmed truth and unconditional love, he would win. He had been wrong.

He wondered if she thought him guilty…hoped she knew him better than that. It was true that there had been days, after her attack, that he had imagined himself hunting down the men who had hurt her and killing them all, had enjoyed thinking of ways to make their deaths as painful as possible…but it wasn't in him to kill out of revenge. He had killed, in battle, but he was not a murderer. Yes, he had told Maire's sister-in-law that he knew who the men were, had said he'd take care of it, but those words had been spoken out of anger and frustration.

He would have recognised Lieutenant Robert Martin instantly if he had seen him, and he _had_ looked, but the man was a ghost, and as time had passed he had lost interest, all his attention focused on Maire. And all this time Martin had been dead. While Maire was fighting her way back from the depression he and his thugs had caused, Martin had been beyond caring, rotting in a shallow grave. The irony was almost amusing. And soon it wouldn't matter any more. Not for him.

The door to his cell grated and moved outward, and he sat up straight. Was this it? Finally? Now that the time was here, he found that he didn't want to die. But he would never let them see his fear; if he gave in they would win.

Three men in the uniform of the British army moved toward him in the semi-darkness. Evan stood, willing himself to meet them on their own level. He lifted his chin, waiting.

"Well, I never thought I'd be springin' a Brit," said one of the men…in an _Irish_ accent. Evan tensed. Was the _IRA_ going to be his executioner? A part of him had expected such a possibility; he had even wondered if the army hoped it would happen; it would solve the problem for them quite neatly. They would be rid of him and could blame it on Irish criminals.

"For sure," said another of the men. "But Mick said we had to save his sorry arse, and I gotta trust Mick."

Mick? Who the hell was Mick? Evan gaped at the speaker.

"Well, let's get on with it, then. I don't want to have to wear this damn uniform any longer than I have to," the third man grumbled.

"OK, boyo, this is how it's going to go down," said the first speaker. "The only way out of this hell hole is on a stretcher, so that's how you're going to go. Hope your head isn't as soft as most of your kind." Something swung out of the darkness, connecting with Evan's skull. Pain exploded behind his eyes and he dropped like a rock.

 **June 10 ,1920**

 **Daniel's Workshop**

"Okay, Patrick, what's this all about?" Tom still hadn't completely forgiven his brother for bamboozling him about Edith, right under his own roof, and he wasn't in the mood for games. But Patrick had insisted that he and Sybil come by the shop after work, and he couldn't see any way to refuse, so here they were.

"Just wanted to show you something, big brother," Patrick said, his smile wide and innocent. "Come on over this way." Across the room Edith sat on a spindle-legged deacon's bench, an inscrutable look on her face. She was pretending to read a magazine, but her eyes were fastened on Tom and Sybil over the top of its pages.

As they moved around the shop, Tom noted with surprise that Daniel's workshop was beginning to take on a new personality. Daniel was a builder, and a good one. He constructed substantial, solid homes that would stand the test of time, and Tom had always thought Patrick was just another of his work crew. The shop was supposed to be the place where they studied the plans, cut the boards for the walls, and carved the moulding, the lintels, and the wainscotting if a client could afford such luxuries.

Tom gazed around him, his interest sharpening. Now the shop looked more like a furniture store than a construction workroom. Beds, desks, and chairs filled the small space…all of them exquisite and finely crafted. This was not Daniel's work. He knew his brother had been experimenting with furniture-making, but to tell the truth he'd been too busy to pay much attention. Tom noted a complicated vine pattern carved into many of the pieces.

"Who made this furniture, Pat?"

"Um, well, that would be me." Patrick's voice was shy, and his head bent, but his eyes looked at his brother from beneath his lashes. "Daniel's pretty much given over this space; we're thinking of opening it up as a shop to get rid of some of this stuff." His voice was offhand, but Sybil sensed that their opinion on "this stuff" was very important to her brother-in-law.

"It's all so beautiful!" she breathed, and meant it. She wandered over to a shrouded form in the corner. "What's this?"

Patrick exchanged a look with Edith. He gave an elaborate shrug. "Oh, nothing. Just something I've been working on in my spare time. Go ahead…you can look."

Sybil pulled the sheet away from the object, and gasped. It was a baby's cot…the most beautiful cot she had ever seen. A beautiful shade of caramel, the wood had been sanded and planed to a warm patina that caught the glow of the electric light in the corner. On the side of the cot next to the wall, a scrolled piece of wood had been added to the rail. The distinctive vine pattern traced its graceful curving lines, and in the center of the panel had been carved an exquisite celtic B.

"Ahh", Sybil sighed. "B for baby. How lovely!" She reached for Tom's hand and entwined her fingers with his, thinking of the baby they had made, their own work of art.

"No," said Patrick. "B for Branson. I made the cot for you."

Tom and Sybil gaped. "For us?" Sybil whispered. "Patrick, really? It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen! Oh, my goodness!" She caressed the smooth wood. "He's going to be the happiest baby in Ireland!"

"And _she'll_ be able to add her own bite marks, for character," laughed Tom, pulling his wife close. "Thank you so much, Pat!"

Patrick and Edith beamed at each other in relief. They were forgiven.

 **June 11, 1920**

 **Mater Misericordiae Hospital**

Sybil sat at the edge of the hospital bed, watching the man as he breathed, his chest moving up and down. His head and much of his face were wrapped in bandages, giving him the look of a mummy she'd once seen at the British Museum in London. How often had she found herself sitting at the bedside of men who had been injured in this damn war, she thought; how many men had she comforted, prayed over? James Donnelly, fifteen years old and already in the IRA. Sam O'Brien, shopping for his mother, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Danny Sullivan, father of four, shot in front of his children. And Tom. She shivered, remembering the fear and desperation of those hours that would shape the rest of her life.

But this man was different. He had not been injured fighting in the war. He wasn't IRA; he wasn't even Irish. Not that it mattered if he were. The Mater did not discriminate when the injured came to them. Sybil had treated RIC, British Army, even Black and Tans. To be a nurse meant you had to leave your personal feelings at the hospital door. There was no room for hatred or judgement; they were patients, blank slates. Except for this man.

This one was family, or as near as. And his sojourn at the Mater was not due to the war; not directly. He was here as part of an injustice that needed to be set right. Plans had been made and carried out to get him here, and as yet he knew nothing about any of it. He also wasn't going to like the next step in his journey, Sybil knew. Her heart ached for him.

The man's eyes fluttered and opened slowly. Cloudy hazel eyes, filled with confusion.

"Hullo, Evan," Sybil whispered. "No, don't talk! Just listen." He stared at her, uncomprehending, and she wondered if his head injury had been greater than Dr. Walsh had said. "You're at the Mater. Your head is covered with bandages, but it's not because you were hurt—well, you _were_ hurt, but it was part of the plan…only they might have been a little too enthusiastic about it…oh, never mind."

"Nod if you understand what I'm saying." He nodded, and she went on in relief, bending low and pretending to check his bandages.

"The IRA brought you here. They dressed as British soldiers and carried you out right under the noses of the real British army!" She giggled, remembering the distaste the three IRA soldiers had shown for their task and for the hated uniforms they'd been forced to wear. "Those were the worst British accents I've ever heard, but at least they tried, and fortunately no one asked them too many questions." She stopped laughing, looking at Evan with sympathy.

"But the army knows you're here, of course, and they've been checking up on you throughout the day. They want to know when you'll be fit enough to be returned to Mountjoy. We've wrapped you up and told them that your head injury—Colin Byrne says he's sorry he had to hit you so hard, by the way—was quite serious and that you can't be moved before tomorrow. Supposedly you were the victim of an attack by IRA prisoners."

Sybil paused to see if Evan Langdon had absorbed any of her words. He blinked, opened his mouth.

"Maire?" It came out as a croak.

"I don't know," Sybil said. "I've been here all day. Do you think you can sit up?" She assisted Evan, who swayed but managed to sit on the edge of the bed. That idiot Colin Byrne didn't know his own strength, she thought in dismay. He wasn't supposed to hit him so hard. Evan looked green, and she was sure there was some puking in his near future. Definitely a concussion. He shouldn't be up, but there was no other choice.

"I-I can stand…I think." His voice seemed a bit stronger, and Sybil relaxed.

Evan looked up as another man came into the room. David? No, Daniel. He remembered him from the Bransons'. Maire's brother-in-law. Nice, quiet chap.

Daniel moved to the bed and sat beside Evan. "I'm you," he said cheerfully. "Now, get the hell out of here…and good luck!"

Sybil quickly unwound the bandages covering Evan's head and handed them to Daniel. "I'll be back soon, but see if you can wrap these yourself." Daniel nodded and lay down in the hospital bed, winking at Evan. For the first time, Evan noticed that Sybil was not wearing her nurse's uniform. He looked down and realized that he himself was dressed as a working class Irishman, like hundreds of others who lived and worked in Dublin.

Sybil handed him a flat cap. "Let's go!" she told him. Slowly, arm and arm, they walked out of the Mater, just another couple among many, a man and his pregnant wife.

"Where are we going?" Evan asked, after they had walked a few blocks. He seemed stronger and his color was better; maybe this was actually going to work.

"To the harbor," Sybil said. She turned and faced him, her expression serious. "You have to leave Ireland, and you can't go back to England. So you're going to America."

Evan gawked at her. "America? I don't know anyone in America!" His voice reflected sudden panic. "Where will I go? What will I do?" Sybil put a finger to her lips and did not answer him until they had come in view of the harbor with its vessels of all sizes and purposes. A huge passenger ship sat at the dock, rocking gently in the calm water.

Then Sybil turned and patted his arm. "You're going to my Granny Martha, in New York," she said. "She'll give you a place to stay until you decide what you want to do."

He pulled back. "But…" He would never see Maire again. Evan knew that this was his only chance now, and he understood what these people had done for him. But how could he—

"Evan?" said a soft Irish voice behind him. He turned, and she was there. Thank God, she had come to say goodbye. "Th-thank you for coming," Evan choked, unable to say more. He was grateful just to be able to see her one more time.

"I'm not here to see you off. I'm coming with you…if you still want me," said Maire, in a soft, trembling voice.

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What…?"

"I love you, Evan Langdon. I can't lose you. I want to spend my life with you. Wherever that might be."

"But-but what about your family?" He wasn't processing. Was this even possible?

"They know, and they understand," she told him. "Mam really likes you, you know. And she trusts Sybil's granny to keep us honest, until…until we're married." A little of the real Maire sparkled at him from under her lashes. "And she's pretty tough, so you'll have to behave!"

Sybil had moved off to allow them privacy for this moment, but now she came back to the couple, pushing them toward the wharf. "You have to go!" she said, her voice urgent. "Maire has your papers. Mr. Collins arranged for your travel documents. You are Mr. and Mrs. Sean Donohue, at least until you get to New York. Now go!"

Maire took Evan's hand. Still dazed, he allowed himself to be propelled toward the ship that waited to take them to their new life. As Sybil watched them go, tears in her eyes, a figure detached itself from the shadows near the terminal.

"Good job, darling," said Tom Branson, as he took his wife in his arms.

Early the next morning, an RIC medic appeared at the Mater, insisting upon seeing the prisoner and determining for himself if he was well enough to be returned to Mountjoy prison. Dr. Walsh walked with him to Evan Langdon's room. A figure lay in the bed, head wrapped in bandages, eyes closed.

"Wake him up!" the officer ordered. Dr. Walsh frowned, then shrugged and walked over to stand next to his patient.

"Sir?" he asked. "Do you feel well enough to speak with this constable?"

The man in the bed stirred and turned his head. "I guess so," said Daniel Ryan. "How can I help you, sir?"

The constable gawked at the stranger, then turned and glared at Dr. Walsh. Face turning red, he sputtered, tried to speak, and then turned on his heel to stomp out of the room, shouting orders as he went. Dr. Walsh looked at Daniel and shrugged. "A lot of stress in the police force these days," he said. "Now, let me have a look at those bandages. I think you're ready to go home. Better do it quickly, too…the RIC seem rather upset."

* * *

 **A/N:** Michael Collins was credited with involvement in several prison escapes during the Irish War of Independence. He knew the inside of a prison well, having been incarcerated in Frongoch Prison during the Easter Rising of 1916. The foundations of Irish resistance were laid in the prisons, and many Irish leaders found the seeds of rebellion in a prison cell. There is no historical record of Michael Collins having organized an escape from Mountjoy Prison, but I'd like to think he might have done so.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Maire - my + ra


	15. Anything Can Happen

_Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be. -_ _Shel Silverstein_

 **August 8, 1920**

 **The Branson Home**

"Sit down, Sybil!" Claire Branson's tone brooked no argument, and Sybil lowered herself into a kitchen chair, looking militant.

"I might as well work," she pouted. "I'm never having this baby, so I'll just have to get used to being the size of a house forever!"

"You know, for a nurse, you're not very clear on how the human body works," Claire told her. "You _will_ have this baby, and if I'm any judge, it'll be very soon. But you aren't going to make it happen any faster by taking up room in the kitchen, so sit. I'll make you a cup of tea."

"I hate Tom," Sybil announced. "Your son did this to me. He told me he loved me, and I fell for it, and now look at me! I'm ugly, and fat, and useless."

Claire ignored her. Ordinarily the sweetest person she knew, Sybil in the last stages of pregnancy was another story altogether. Since she had been forced to quit working two months ago, she had been restless and irritable much of the time, breaking into tears without warning and snapping at Tom and Edith over the most minor things. Edith, used to her baby sister being the peacemaker, did not know how to handle this strange new being, and she found herself finding excuses to be away from the flat as much as possible.

Tom was torn between the desire to work late in order to avoid going home, and the need to make sure his wife was all right; he had decided that they were _never_ having another child. Finally he went to his mother for advice, and Claire decided that Sybil should move into Maire's old bedroom for the remainder of her pregnancy. Claire had given birth to six children, and she knew how to handle the anxieties of a new mother. So it was done.

Now Sybil put her swollen feet up on another chair and sipped her tea. "Thanks, Mam," she sighed. "I'm such a monster these days, I don't know how any of you put up with me. Poor Tom…he flinches every time I open my mouth, because he knows he's going to be guilty of something! I hate it when he hovers, but I know he means well. I love him to death and I want to be nice, but I can't help myself. Today's Sunday, but where is he? 'Helping Colum with something', he says. Humph! Helping him finish a keg of ale, I'll bet! He's avoiding me! I'm a horrible person, and I deserve to be alone and unloved forever!"

"Sure and you're the first woman ever to have a baby, you know," Claire said, turning from the sink. "No one has ever gone through what's happening to you. Your husband is certain to leave you, and if you think _I'm_ taking you in when that happens, think again!"

Sybil's eyes grew huge and her mouth rounded into an O, and then her lips twitched and her body began to shake. A giggle escaped, and then a laugh, and soon tears of mirth were running down her face.

"I-I'm s-sorry," she gasped. "I really am the most ridiculous person, aren't I? I know it's hormones and discomfort, and that it will pass…I'm a nurse, for heaven's sake! But I'm acting like a spoiled child who has had her treat taken away. I vow, starting right now, to behave myself and act like a grown woman."

"Well, dear, that would be very nice," said Claire. She came over and placed a kiss on Sybil's forehead. "It will all be over soon, and then the real fun will start. I guarantee that there will be times you'll wish you could put that baby back inside you." She arched one eyebrow and turned back to her dishes.

Sybil laughed. "I love you, Mam." She struggled to her feet. "And now I'm going to the toilet…again. Oh!" Claire turned to find her daughter-in-law staring at the floor, where a puddle was forming under her dress.

"So, it starts," Claire said, her voice calm. "Your waters have broken. Looks as though you'll be having that baby after all. Daniel! Get your truck!"

Sybil soon found herself at the Mater, tucked into a hospital bed. Tom arrived and alternately held her hand and paced. Three hours later, she wondered what she was doing there; nothing more had happened. After five hours, she began to experience contractions, and by midnight they were five minutes apart. At two o'clock in the morning the contractions stopped. The doctor came in regularly, took her vitals and assured her that things were progressing.

At four o'clock the contractions began again, with a vengeance. Kathleen, Bernadette, and Claire took turns rubbing Sybil's back and feet. They tried to throw Tom out, but he refused to budge. His eyes were bleary and his hair stuck up all over his head from running his hands nervously through it, but he remained glued to his wife's side, holding her hand.

"You're doing great, darling! You're a natural at this!" he murmured. Between contractions, Sybil kept her eyes fixed on her husband, grateful beyond measure for his presence. How could she ever have yelled at him?

"I couldn't do this without you," she whispered. "I do love you so much, Tom!" Another contraction seized her, causing her to gasp. She went back to breathing.

By six o'clock in the morning, the contractions were still five minutes apart. Tom went out into the hall and called for the doctor. "Why is it taking so long?" he demanded, his voice raw with worry. "Shouldn't the baby be here by now? What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong," the doctor assured him. "First-time mothers often take longer to deliver. First time fathers always worry. Everything is normal."

But when another hour had passed, it was obvious to Tom that everything was not normal. The contractions were no closer than before, and Sybil was becoming exhausted. The doctor came in, ordered everyone out of the room, and took his place at the foot of the bed. Two nurses accompanied him. Tom studied their faces, but could read nothing in them. One of the nurses put her hand on his arm and gently pushed him out, closing the door in his face.

"I want you to rest between contractions, sweetheart," the doctor said to Sybil, his voice calm. "You're going to need all your strength to push in a very short while. "Shallow breaths, now…that's the way. Good girl."

Tom paced the hallway outside, fear clutching his heart. What was happening? Why wasn't he allowed to be with his wife? His mind began to envision all sorts of terrible things that could be happening inside that room. Women died in childbirth! What if she was in danger? He should be there!

Claire took her son's arm. "It's going to be all right, Tom. Sybil is strong, and she's right where she needs to be. The doctor is with her; he knows what to do." Soothing words that fell on deaf ears.

"I can't live without her, Mam," he choked. "She's my life! What am I going to do if…" He stopped, unable to go on, his blue eyes wide with terror. "She's my life!"

The door opened and the doctor came out. Tom stared at him, paralyzed with fear, every nerve in his body tingling with apprehension.

"Mr. Branson?" said the doctor. "Your wife is asking for you. Would you like to meet your daughter?"

 **August 13, 1920**

 **Letter from Maire Langdon to Claire Branson**

 _August 4, 1920_

 _Dear Mam,_

 _I received your letter, yesterday, and sat right down to write back. Evan_ _and I are well, although I do admit to being quite homesick for Dublin, and especially for you and Kathleen. I know I made the right decision, though…how you all must be laughing at me that I have married an Englishman! Well, laugh all you like. The two of us have quite a few laughs when we think about our odd courtship. Nothing normal for the crazy Irish, Evan says! But I do love him so much, and although you will say it took me forever to realize it because of my stubbornness, I found my knight in shining armor, and he did carry me off on his horse—or on an ocean liner, as it turned out. We couldn't be happier._

 _Sybil's grandmother—she insists that we call her Martha—has been so kind; she's insisted that we stay with her until we find our feet, and I think I've met my match with her; she doesn't take no for an answer. Evan has begun taking classes at the New York Medical College, and he works as a paramedic full time, so he is exhausted but happy. I'm doing my part, Mam—I found a lovely Irish Pub called O'Malley's, and when they heard my accent they took me on straight away! It's not Murphy's but the proprietor reminds me of Colum, and Martha's chauffeur drives me to and from work every day, so I'm quite la-de-da._

 _I do so wish you could have been here for the wedding. Martha insisted that it be held at her home, which is a mansion the like of which you've never seen, and I wore Sybil's dress—please thank her for lending it to me. I didn't know anyone except Martha and Evan, of course, but Martha's friends acted as if they'd known us for years, and made us feel like royalty! Everyone said that I was the most beautiful bride they'd ever set eyes upon, but the only one whose opinion counts is Evan, and I could tell he was fairly bowled over so I guess I was a success. The veil was lovely, Mam. My hair has grown down to my chin now, so I could wear it pinned up, and Martha lent me a beautiful comb—but nothing compares to your lace—you would have been so pleased by all the oohs and ahhs._

 _How is Sybil? She must be big as a whale by now, and pretty eager to have that baby. I can just imagine Tom; he's probably hovering like an old biddy hen. I do wish I could be there to see the baby, but of course that isn't possible, even if we could afford the trip. Some day we'll be back; Evan has said so, and he's the most truthful man I've ever known so I know it'll happen._

 _Give my love to Bern, and Katie, and Daniel and Tom and Sybil and Connor and Fiona—she'll be such a big girl when I see her again, and Michael, and Patrick—did I forget anyone? Oh, yes, and Sybil's sister Edith, if she's still around. I even miss her! In fact, I'd better close this letter before I start crying and get all the writing smeared._

 _I love you, Mam…so much._

 _Your American daughter,_

 _Maire_

 **August 17, 1920**

 **The Branson Flat**

The sound of soft singing woke Sybil from the first sound sleep she'd had in ten days. She sat up, disoriented, and looked for the source of the sound, and then lay back, smiling. Across the room Tom sat, rocking their daughter and singing softly in Irish.

 _Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh_

 _Mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór_

 _Seothín seo ho, nach mór é an taitneamh_

 _Mo stóirín na leaba, na chodladh gan brón._

Within minutes, the infant relaxed in her father's arms and fell asleep. Tom carried her to the bed and placed her carefully in Sybil's arms.

"What do the words mean?" Sybil asked. "The lullaby."

"It's a song to ward off the fairies," he answered smiling down at the baby. "The words in English say:

 _Hush-a-bye, baby, my darling, my child_

 _My flawless jewel, my piece of the world_

 _Hush-a-bye, baby, isn't it a great joy_

 _My little one in bed without any sorrows."_

"Oh, it's so much prettier in Irish!" Sybil breathed. "And look at her; she loves it when you sing to her."

Together they sat on the bed for a long while, staring down at the miracle their love had created. Both were exhausted and in need of sleep, but this magical time of the night was special for all three of them. The time would pass quickly enough, and Abby would not be a baby forever.

They had named her Abigeál. Sybil liked it because the name was both English and Irish, and because it meant "father's joy". "It's only fair," she had conceded, "since you were right about the baby being a girl and all. We'll spell it the Irish way, but we're calling her Abby."

Tom hadn't much cared what they called the baby; he was just happy that the stress of the birth was over and they were all home where they belonged. The doctor, his mother, and even Sybil had insisted that his wife had never been in danger and that Abby's birth was perfectly normal, but he didn't believe it for a minute. It would be a long time before he recovered from the fear of losing her. At times he would awaken during the night just to watch her breathe, sending a prayer of thanks to God for keeping her safe.

Sybil was planning to stay at home with the baby as long as they could afford it, which was a good thing because women were not encouraged to return to work after giving birth. Dr. Walsh would welcome her back when she was ready, and she was grateful for his open mind, but the truth was, she couldn't envision being apart from Abby. In her wildest dreams she had never imagined that something so small could wrap its little arms around her heart like this. She had the most beautiful baby and the most wonderful husband in the world, and not for a moment did she ever want to take her life for granted.

Abby was a lucky little girl. She had been blessed with a doting grandmother and all her Branson aunts and uncles, but the relative who lavished the most attention on her was, somewhat surprisingly, her aunt Edith. Sybil had been amazed at the connection her sister had formed with the baby; she had never seemed particularly interested in children before, although to be fair there hadn't been any at Downton. No one in their circle talked about babies; children were seen infrequently and whisked off by nannies, out of sight and mind.

But there were a lot of things about her sister that had come as a surprise. Last August Sybil would never have believed that Edith would be here a year later, still talking about getting a job. Her sister had softened, opened up and become more generous during her time in Ireland, and a large part of the change had to do with Patrick. They were the oddest couple she had ever seen, but somehow they worked. Edith had never been so happy, and after the first shock, everyone had accepted that might be something real there.

The sun was peeking over the trees in the east when Abigeál stirred again. Sybil tiptoed to the crib and picked up her tiny daughter, wanting to let Tom get in another hour or two before he had to leave for work. To her surprise, she and Abby weren't alone in the sitting room. Edith, wrapped in a blanket, sat in the armchair, staring into the empty fireplace with a faraway look on her face. She held a piece of paper loosely in her hand.

"I know why _I'm_ up so early, but why are you?" Sybil asked her sister, as she prepared to nurse her daughter.

Edith blinked and focused her gaze. "I have a letter…from Mama." Her face was expressionless.

"She's still coming, isn't she?" Sybil asked anxiously. Cora was due to visit Dublin in two weeks, and the entire Branson family was getting ready for her arrival. The two mothers had bonded when the family had come for Tom and Sybil's wedding, and Claire was determined to pull out all the stops for her friend's visit.

"Yes." Edith picked at a thread on her robe.

"What is it, Edith? Is something wrong?" Sybil stared at her sister with concern.

"No," Edith said, her expression flat. "Well…yes. I haven't said anything, because you've been occupied…" She gestured to the baby. "But Mama's been writing quite a lot. She thinks I shouldn't, no—mustn't, stay here any longer. She says it's right for you, but not for me. And…she's right, Sybil." Edith looked at her sister, and Sybil saw tears in her eyes.

"I'll never get into a teaching school here; I'll never get a job. Of course Mama doesn't know about Patrick, and she would never understand." She was crying now, a quiet sound of despair and hopelessness. "I don't think I can do this. I'm not you. I'm very fond of Patrick, but it's impossible. _We're_ impossible."

Sybil crossed and knelt in front of her sister, holding the baby in the crook of her arm. "Edith, that's not true! You've been so happy here! You're just frustrated about the job; believe me, I know what that's like. Please, think about this. Talk to Patrick. Give it time…anything can happen!"

Edith looked up, eyes bleak. "Mama wants me to go home with her. And I think maybe I should."

* * *

 **A/N:** The New York Medical College was the brainchild of William Cullen Bryant, the noted poet, abolitionist and editor of the Evening Post. In 1860, the school opened its doors on the corner of 20th street and Third Avenue as the New York Homeopathic Medical College. Bryant served as the medical school's first president and held the office of president of the Board of Trustees for 10 years.

 ** _Pronunciation Guide:_**

 _Maire - my + ra_


	16. Who is Left

_War does not determine who is right — only who is left. -_ Aonymous

 **August 29, 1920**

 **The Branson Home**

Cora Crawley narrowed her eyes. There was something off about Edith. Her letters were always cheerful, full of descriptive language about the weather, Tom and Sybil, the escapades of the Branson siblings, Claire's cooking. But nothing about herself. Cora had no idea what her middle daughter was doing in Ireland, but she was going to find out. When she'd left "for a visit" nearly a year ago, no one could have guessed that she planned on staying. And truthfully, things had been less tense at Downton without the constant sniping between Edith and Mary. Almost a relief.

Edith had always gotten lost in the shuffle, she admitted to herself. In the midst of Mary's need for center stage and Sybil's constant drive to bend the rules of society, Edith had often disappeared, and they had been only too willing to let her. Frequently sullen and gloomy, she had made it easy for the others to move on with their lives without her. But now she seemed different. Something had changed; Cora couldn't put her finger on it, but she would be here for three weeks. She'd keep watch, and when she got Edith home she'd get it out of her. Because she _was_ taking her home.

The baby chirped, and her attention shifted away from her daughter. Her first grandchild, and what a beauty. At three weeks, Abby was a placid baby, much like Sybil had been—her huge blue eyes took in the world around her almost as if she knew her place in it, and was content with her lot. And why not? Cora thought. She had the best of two worlds. Half English, half Irish, she would grow up with the blood of two nations, and hopefully help to shape a better future with her tiny hands.

She watched Tom coo to the baby as he rocked her. Cora had never seen a father so immersed in his child, but of course, she should have expected that much. Tom Branson approached anything he loved with unparalleled passion and exuberance, and nothing stood in his way. Cora wondered how she and Robert had ever thought they'd had a chance, once he had set his sights on Sybil. And watching her youngest daughter with her family, she was glad that they'd lost that particular battle.

Tom caught her watching him. He rose and brought Abby to her grandmama, smiling with pride. "She looks just like Sybil, doesn't she?" he said as he placed the infant carefully into Cora's arms. Cora hid a smile. Sybil had had a full head of dark hair when she was born, and Abigeál Branson was as bald as a doorknob. Those _might_ be Sybil's eyebrows, but the sea-blue eyes were Tom's, and the adorable toothless grin was decidedly lop-sided.

"Oh, exactly like Sybil," she agreed. Tom beamed at his mother-in-law and left her with her grandaughter.

Claire Branson came over and took a seat next to Cora. Tonight was a celebration, and Claire had pulled out all the stops to welcome her friend and show off their mutual grandaughter. All the Bransons, plus Kathleen's young man Deaglan, were here…all except Maire. Claire had told Cora about Maire and her Englishman; there was no point in trying to leave out any of the sordid details, as Martha Levenson had probably filled her in anyway. Claire missed Maire terribly, but things were certainly a bit calmer with her tempestuous daughter safely across the ocean in America.

"In a hundred years I never would have imagined _two_ of my children marrying you British!" Claire teased Cora. She looked sideways at her friend to gauge her expression, and was heartened to see that she was laughing. Lady Grantham might not be so cheerful if she knew that another of her _own_ children had tangled herself up with an Irishman, Claire thought…but whatever Patrick and Edith had going on, it was not her secret to tell. Thank God, Claire thought. Cora might survive another shock, but her husband Robert was another story.

She remembered how pompous Lord Grantham had been, sitting in this very room two weeks before his daughter's wedding and hating everything about the environment in which he had been thrust against his will. He had changed radically in so many ways before he had departed again for England, she thought, but another of his daughters becoming involved romantically with a working class Irish family—the _same_ working class Irish family— might just be the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back.

Claire sighed. She hadn't been much better than Lord Grantham when Tom had brought Lady Sybil Crawley home with him; it had taken time and hard work on all sides before she could call the British aristocrat daughter. Sybil had destroyed her predjudices and cemented herself into all their hearts.

But Sybil was special. Claire was not sure about Edith, and to be honest, she wasn't too sure about Patrick, either. Edith was not Sybil, and Patrick was not Tom. Before he had discovered his talent as an artist and found his calling, Patrick had been the grasshopper to Tom's ant, and a part of Claire was wondering if the old Patrick was truly gone. Maybe he had grown up, maybe not. How could he expect to support an aristocratic wife? Not to mention one who was older and undoubtedly more mature; it was just such a peculiar match!

And what did Edith want in Ireland, anyway? Until recently, Sybil's sister hadn't seemed terribly interested in doing anything productive. Now she was talking about becoming a teacher, of all things, but for the better part of a year she had seemed disinterested in the idea of real work. At least now they all knew how…and with whom…she had been spending much of her time!

Claire shook her head. She was getting ahead of herself. After the debacle with Maire, Michael's IRA activities, and Tom being shot and nearly killed, a fling between Patrick and Edith should have been a tiny ripple on the Branson pond. It had been a year for the record books, and with this war boiling out of control, things weren't likely to ease up anytime soon. She shook herself out of her thoughts and stood. It would all sort itself out somehow, but for now Claire Branson had a dinner to serve. This was a celebration and they were damn well going to celebrate.

 **September 14, 1920**

 **Grand Canal Dock Station, Dublin**

The three men waited in the shadows of the railway station, eyes darting to the left and right, heads shifting constantly to check behind them. Caution was the way of life in Dublin in these times, and anyone who didn't stay vigilant was a fool—or a dead man.

"It's the last straw!" one of the men muttered to his companions. "First they send over the damn Black and Tans, and now they've stolen our legal rights! This new act means they can put out an arrest warrant for no reason, and we don't even get a fair trial! They can even kill us without sufferin' much in the way of consequences! They're lookin' for me, so I'm going home to my sister in Cork for a while. What're you gonna do, Davy?"

"I'm going to keep fighting, Seamus," Davy O'Brien growled, his voice low. "I've had to quit my job and stay hidden during the day, but I can still fire a gun! He turned to the third man in their group. "And you're the best shot in the Volunteers, Alan! We can't quit now."

"Yeah," the man laughed bitterly. "My family will be taken care of by the brothers. It'll be hard for them for a while, but now I have more time for the cause. They didn't expect that, I reckon, those pompous fools over in London! I guess we're full-time soldiers now. We'll teach those bastards what it means to be Irish and free!

"Sshhh," warned Seamus. "Someone's coming!" The three crouched in the shadows, hearts racing. Then…"no, it's all right," he whispered. That's George Lynch and Mick Branson. The Big Fellow must have sent them over to watch our backs. Never hurts to—"

Shots rang out, and Seamus crumpled to the ground. Five shadowy figures had risen from behind strategically placed cargo boxes and were firing at the three IRA soldiers. An ambush!

"Damn it, Seamus, get up. Get up!" Davy hissed. But the hole in the man's forehead told his fellows that he would never be rising again. For Seamus Sullivan, the war was over. The others dropped to the ground and began to belly crawl toward the station building.

More shots, and now they could see the RIC, spreading out and firing at will. The shots kept coming, and Davy screamed as a bullet caught him in his stomach. Desperate, Alan Breen fired at the shadowy forms, and heard a grunt as his bullet found its mark. He squirmed along the ground near the station wall, making himself as small as possible, looking for a target.

Lynch and Branson were behind the RIC and hadn't yet been seen. Lynch sighted along the barrel of his rifle and fired, and a constable went down. Another turned, and return fire caught Lynch full on. He fell, a bloom of red spreading on his chest.

Alan Breen was indeed one of the best shots in the IRA. His revolver found two more RIC and took them down. How many left? He had lost count.

Two shots rang out simultaneously. Alan's body jerked, shuddered and went still, his gun dropping out of his hand and skittering along the station platform. The constable who had brought him down stood still for a moment, swaying slightly, and then his knees buckled. He dropped his weapon and clutched at his chest, and then he fell forward to lie face down in the dirt, unmoving. The night was enveloped in silence once more.

Aislinn Collins was reading in the sitting room. She was alone; Deaglan was at the Bransons' with Kathleen and her uncle was out somewhere…doing something dangerous that she'd rather not know about, no doubt. She tried to hide in her books and forget this horrible war for a few moments, forget that her uncle and his army were out there taking their lives in their hands, that innocent citizens could become victims of the violence as easily as the soldiers who fought in the streets.

Sometimes Aislinn hated the IRA almost as much as she hated the RIC and the Black and Tans who had invaded her country. Surely there was a better way to gain freedom from England than by all this killing! What about talking? Where had common sense and civility gone? This was 1920, for God's sake!

A pounding came on the front door, and Aislinn's heart leapt to her throat. Deaglan and her uncle had keys…who could it be at this time of the night? She was gripped by a paralyzing dread…had someone been injured? Worse? Fear had her rooted to her chair. She considered pretending that no one was at home, waiting for the person to go away, but her reading light gave her away. Sighing, she forced herself to stand up, knees shaking, and tiptoed to the door.

"Wh-who's there?" she called softly, her voice wavering.

"It's m-me. H-h-hurry, open the door. Please!"

Aislinn scrabbled for the latch and threw the door open. Michael Branson stood on the step, his body shaking like an aspen leaf. His eyes were wild and his hair stood on end. His chest heaved as if he had run the breadth of Dublin.

As Michael sagged against the doorframe, Aislinn grabbed him before he could fall and pulled him into the house, shutting the door behind them.

"What's happened?" she asked him, her voice low and urgent. 'Are you hurt?"

He blinked and focused on her as if he had just noticed she was there.

"No," he said, his words dull and flat, hanging in the silence of the hall. "They're all dead." He stared at her—through her. "I've just killed a man," he said simply. And then he fell into her arms. Aislinn held him like a baby, rocking him as he sobbed.

 **September 16, 1920**

 **Murphy's Pub**

Patrick stared across the table at Edith. "What do you mean…you're going home?" His blue eyes were round and confused. "What—what about us?"

Edith could not meet those eyes. She kept her head down, speaking rapidly, trying to get the words out before she choked on the self-loathing and the suffocating feeling of failure.

"I'm going back to Downton with Mama. I don't belong here. I'll never belong here! I'm not like Sybil…I'm not brave. I'll never get a job…what was I thinking, wanting to be a teacher? I don't have the qualifications to get into a teacher training course, and even if I did no one would take me because I'm English. It's no use, Patrick! I can't fit into life here! I never will!" Her voice trailed off, but still she could not look at him.

"You mean," his voice was low and the tone seared her heart, "you can't fit into a life with a plain, working class Irishman. That's what you mean, isn't it? I'm not good enough for you. I never thought I was, but I thought you didn't care. I thought what we had was worth fighting for. I should have known better." The words were soft, but every one pierced her heart like an arrow.

Edith could barely breathe. A voice somewhere inside her was shouting, _Stop this! What are you doing? Tell him you don't mean it!_ But the part of her that had always risen up to sabotage her happiness was in charge, and she hadn't the strength to stop it. She had never had the strength. Finally she found her voice.

"That's not true. That's not it at all! You're better than me! I care about you, Patrick…more than I've ever cared about anyone. I'll never meet anyone like you! But it just won't work! Please…try to understand!" She stopped, trying to find the words. "I'll never forget you, Patrick. You will always be a part of me…" again her voice trailed off as her throat closed and tears filled her eyes.

Patrick stood, his face etched in stone. "I told you once that it wouldn't be easy, that we just had to care enough to try. You seem determined to do this, to throw us away, and I'll not try to change your mind. But know this, Edith Crawley…I love you, and I think I could have made you happy. Goodbye, _my lady._ " And he turned and walked out of the pub without a backward glance.

* * *

 **A/N:** As the war escalated in Ireland, the British realized that civil administration had broken down. In August 1920, Parliament passed the Restoration of Order in Ireland Act, suspending the courts system and giving the army and RIC powers to enforce the death penalty and imprison Irish republicans without trial. The result was that IRA soldiers were forced to go on the run, which meant that they had to quit their jobs and could therefore devote all their time to the war, ironically giving them an advantage in the long run.

 **A/N:** On September 14, 1920, three IRA volunteers were killed in an ambush by Crown forces, sparking retaliation by the IRA. The deaths of the RIC soldiers were my own invention, and I'm not sorry I killed them.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Seamus - shay + muss


	17. Always with You

_A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person. -_ Mignon McLaughlin

 **October 9, 1920**

 **The Branson Flat**

Tom ran his hands through his hair again. If he didn't get some sleep soon, he wouldn't be able to hold his head up at work. But the baby was inconsolable; her fretful cries had kept all three of them up for the past three nights. He paced the length of the sitting room, patting his daughter on her back and murmuring to her in Irish. It wasn't working. Abby wasn't interested in anything he had to say, no matter what language it was in. Her little face was scrunched up and little hiccuping sobs filled the room.

Tom was on the edge of panic. How did other people do it? Some of his colleagues had two or three children, and none of them had died from parenting, to his knowledge. What were he and Sybil doing wrong? He had changed her nappy twice, sung to her until he was hoarse, walked a groove in the floor of the flat. Nothing he tried worked. He was a horrible father, and she would probably run away from home as soon as she could walk.

Sybil came into the sitting room. "Nothing doing, darling?" she asked, her voice crackling with fatigue. "I'll take a turn."

"No," Tom said stubbornly. "You need to sleep, and it's my turn. Just because our daugher hates her father doesn't mean I'm going to give up. I'm going to win this battle if its the last thing I do!"

Sybil laughed softly. "She doesn't hate you, Tom. All babies go through these phases. Mam said so. Here…I'll try to feed her again." She took Abby from him and sat down on the couch. Tom watched through bleary eyes as the baby fussed, tossed her small head, and finally latched on and began to suck noisily. Tom sat down gingerly next to his women and put his arm around Sybil.

"Do you remember when we were first married?" he asked softly. "We were tired all the time then, too, but somehow it didn't matter." He grinned down at his wife. "If we'd known then what we know now, maybe we could have tried to get more sleep; stored it up or something."

"Oh, I seriously doubt it, darling," Sybil giggled. "Neither one of us is very good at pacing ourselves, and our daughter seems to be taking after us all the way." She looked up into Tom's blue eyes, so like those of their daughter. Eyes you could drown in.

"Do you remember our wedding night?" she asked. "We were so tired after all the excitement of the wedding party that we could barely stand up, and yet somethow we stayed awake until the wee hours of the morning. You have a _lot_ of stamina, darling!"

Tom laughed, a low rumble in his throat. "Me! I tried to let you sleep; I was a true gentleman, if I recall. But you were such a lecherous woman, you wouldn't leave me alone! I was truly shocked to find I had married such a licentious hussy!" He shook his head in mock disapproval. "It took me a full five seconds to get over it!"

Sybil was shaking with laughter. "Well, I don't remember being given an out; I thought it was my duty to perform for my husband, no matter how cruel and demanding he might be." She put on her most posh tone. "I was taught that if my husband behaved too much like a barbarian, I was just to lie back, close my eyes, and think of England. It was quite a chore, but I was raised to know my place."

Tom snorted. "You—know your place? My lady, there isn't a woman on God's green earth who knows less about 'her place' than you, and I for one am very glad that's so!" They were quiet for a moment, remembering the magic of that night, and then Tom spoke again.

"Your place is with me," he said quietly. "I knew it when you were sixteen and bubbling over about women's rights, and then again when you were brave enough to go against your family to become a nurse. I thought I couldn't love you more than I did when you stood up in that drawing room and faced your father, but I was wrong. I fell in love with you all over again when you forced my family to love you. I've fallen in love over and over again, always with you, and I'll keep falling in love with you until the day I die."

Sybil, tears shining in her eyes, raised her face and touched her lips to his. Everything he said sounded like poetry. Then…"Shhh!" she whispered. "Listen!"

"What?" Tom said, confused. "I don't hear anything."

"Exactly." They looked down at their daughter, sound asleep in her mother's arms. Tom stood and helped Sybil to her feet, and together they walked to the bedroom and placed Abby back into her cot.

Sybil stretched a kink out of her neck. "Finally," she breathed. "We can get some sleep."

"Mmmm," Tom murmured, nuzzling her hair. "We can." They looked at each other, swaying with fatigue.

"Are you very tired?" asked Sybil, a hopeful glint in her eye.

"Not really," said her husband. "Let's find out if you know your place."

 **October 12, 1920**

 **Offices of the British Army, Dublin**

Major John Cooper sat at his desk, staring at the pile of documents in front of him. He had to get this report sent to London, but his mind kept wandering and he did not relish the task. He had nothing good to report, and the failure ate at him.

How had it all gone so wrong? The British army was the greatest fighting force in the world; they should have been able to put down this insurrection in days. It should have been over with the Easter Rising back in '16, but instead here they were, fighting a heavily outnumbered force of poorly trained civilian soldiers, four years later.

And they were losing; he could feel it. His men simply didn't have the passion to match that of the Irish republicans whose very existence depended on ridding their country of their British overlords. The RIC was not up to the task—hell, most of them were Irishmen themselves—their hearts weren't in it. The Black and Tans had been a desperate experiment gone wrong; their cruelty had served to whip up the fervor and hatred in the citizens and spur on the IRA.

The IRA. What had started out as a group of rabble-rousers who had to steal their weapons from the enemy had turned into a fighting force to be reckoned with. Their leaders—that damn Collins, and Eamon de Valera, were ruthless, intelligent, and beloved by the people. Major Cooper knew that what they had, what his own army lacked in this war, was heart. And he admired them for it; he couldn't help himself.

His adjutant rapped on the office door, and entered. "Sir, there's a young person insisting on seeing you." His lip curled with derision. "Irish, of course. Rather shabby. Should I send her away?"

Cooper was curious. It was obvious that this report wasn't getting finished; might as well see what the young woman wanted. His day couldn't get much worse. And, to be honest, he hated the look on his subordinate's face when he talked about the Irish, and wanted to wipe it off. It was all too common in his experience, and it helped nothing.

"Send her in, Samuels."

The adjutant ushered the woman in and left. For a few minutes, the major and his guest stared at each other. She was thin to the point of emaciation, her skeletal wrists protruding from a frayed brown coat, worn cotton stockings slipping down her legs toward boots that should have gone to the dustbin months ago. But her eyes were burning coals in her pale face, and her expression was determined. Very young, not more than eighteen or so. She twisted her hands restlessly in front of her, bunching her skirts as she stood trembling before him.

"Is there something I can do for you, miss—?" asked John Cooper politely.

"S-sullivan, sir. Bridget Sullivan. I have come to—I-I have done something…" she stopped, began again. What little color remained in her pale face had drained away. She lifted her head and glared at Cooper. "Seamus is dead; you can't hurt him anymore." Her chin came up. "I have come to make a confession."

 **October 17, 1920**

 **Dublin Docks**

Aislinn Collins and Michael Branson sat on a bench in the shadow of a warehouse, eating the lunch she had brought.

"You didn't have to do this," Michael told her, his voice sounding irritated. "You don't need to baby me, just because I…" he stopped. That night a month ago…the night he had cried in her arms…it all seemed a bad dream now. He had tried to forget his weakness, his shame at having fallen apart…but did a man ever forget the first time he killed another human being?

In a way, this had been a long time coming. He'd been a member of the Volunteers, and then the Irish Republican Army, for almost a year and a half. He'd taken the oath, trained in warfare, and had gone on missions with his fellow soldiers. Of course he had known that killing was a part of war. But he had made a promise to his brother Tom after Patrick had been attacked and almost killed. He had promised not to take part in violence for its own sake, not to mindlessly hate everything British just because of the RIC and the Black and Tans.

He had not promised to avoid fighting; had not said he wouldn't kill. That would have been an impossible promise to keep. But he had tried to weigh his decisions; he had told his superiors that he would not shame himself or his family by taking part in assassinations or the murder of innocent citizens. And for the most part, he had been able to keep his word. Not this time.

The ambush of his fellow soldiers at the train station had been so unexpected, so violent, that he had reacted as a soldier; had tried to save his comrades and himself, and had killed a constable who killed his fellow and wanted to kill him. It was justified, he knew. This was war. But he had not been expecting the way his mind and body reacted to what he had done. His fear and grief had sent him into Aislinn's arms, a sobbing wreck.

To give her credit, she had not spoken of that night since. He barely knew her, really—had spent no time at all with her when he visited the Collins residence, and had thought that she was cold and superior, all wrapped up in her books and no time for anyone except Kathleen and Deaglan.

But she had held him that night and let him cry out his sorrow, and she had never mentioned it again. He had been grateful. Really. Had taken the time to smile at her and say hello when he came to visit her uncle. They had begun a tentative friendship, and he had found that she was not stuck up at all; she was shy. Her bossiness was a cover for her timidity.

But then she had started to bring him his lunch at the docks, and he had begun to wonder if she felt sorry for him. Did she pity him? Was she waiting for him to pour out more troubles to her? His suspicions had grown, until finally he had growled at her.

Aislinn jumped up, her eyes hurt. "I'm not babying you!" she cried. I just wanted to be nice, and you don't seem to take care of yourself. I thought you wanted to be friends, but I see I was wrong!"

Michael felt his cheeks redden. "I just didn't want…"

"Oh, never mind, Michael Branson! Just leave me alone!" And Aislinn turned and walked away as quickly as she could without running.

Michael sighed and picked up the sandwich. Why were women so volatile? He took a bite and found that the sandwich tasted like sawdust in his mouth. He threw it into the dustbin and went back to work, but he kept turning the incident over in his mind. He'd been right, hadn't he? He'd just wanted to make it clear that he didn't want her pity. It wasn't his fault she jumped to conclusions, was it? Was it?

 **October 25, 1920**

 **Letter from Claire Branson to Maire Langdon**

 _Darling Maire,_

 _I have the most wonderful news! Evan has been exonerated. We all knew that he didn't kill that horrible officer, but now the truth has come out, after all this time. A Major Cooper from the British army came to see me yesterday. Yes! A high-up British officer, knocking on my door! You can imagine my fright…no one was at home and I thought that he must be looking for Michael, because what would a British officer want with me? I almost slammed the door in his face, but thank goodness I came to my senses._

 _It turns out that a young woman came to the barracks and turned herself in. Major Cooper told me that Lieutenant Martin and his thugs—the very same ones that hurt you—had been watching her home in Cork. The poor girl—her name is Bridget Sullivan—had a brother in the IRA, and they were hoping to catch him at home, but he was too smart. So they burst into the house and roughed her up, threatening her and…well, you know what they were like! They left, but later that night the lieutenant came back alone. He broke down the door and dragged her to the bedroom and…he raped her. He told her he'd come back and have his way with her as many times as it took for her to tell him where her brother was, but when he got up to go she pulled her brother's hunting rifle from under the bed and she shot him dead! When her brother came home they buried his body in the woods._

 _Major Cooper told me that the girl's brother was killed recently, so she decided that it was time to stop hiding. She had nothing left, poor thing, and the guilt was eating her up. She told them to lock her up; she deserved it. But the major seems to be a nice man (like one or two other English people, I'm told), and he refused to do it. He said she'd suffered enough in this war, and that would be the end of it. And then he came straight by, and told me to tell Evan he was free. I guess it wasn't much of a secret where Evan had been spending all his spare time…and he thought he was so sneaky!_

 _So, isn't that wonderful news? I know that you two think you're American these days, but at least now you can come home to visit! In fact, I want you both here for Christmas. I'm sending a bit of money to help with your passage; it's not much, but I've been saving to come visit, so it's my Christmas present to you both. There will be no discussion. I miss you terribly, my darling girl, and so do your sisters and brothers. And you'll get to meet Miss Abigeál Branson, who is the most adorable baby in Ireland._

 _Give Evan my love, and tell Martha thank you again for all she's done for my family._

 _All my love,_

 _Mam_

 _PS. Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you—Sybil's sister Edith has gone home to Downton! Patrick is that cut up about it, and I don't have the heart to tell him I knew it wouldn't last. Of course, she's Sybil's sister so she's family, and we don't talk about it, but that girl had better stay over there if she knows what's good for her—hurting my boy like that!_

* * *

 **A/N:** During the Irish War of Independence, republican women took active roles in the conflict. They carried dispatches, arranged for the recovery of bodies, hid weapons and provided safe houses for the IRA. Women found guilty were imprisoned along with the men, and although none were executed during the war, at least twenty took part in hunger strikes while in prison. Merely knowing an IRA soldier could result in interrogation and abuse—sometimes rape—of a woman during these harsh times.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Seamus - shay + muss


	18. Cycling Through

_When you experience loss, people say you'll move through the 5 stages of grief….Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance….What they don't tell you is that you'll cycle through them all every day. -_ Ranata Suzuki

 **November 1, 1920**

 **The Collins Home**

"Um…where's Aislinn?" Michael tried to keep his voice level; no need to act as if it mattered where she was. Because it didn't, of course. They had barely spoken to each other in the two weeks since she'd left him at the docks. It was just that she was always home by now, and her being late was a bit off-putting.

Kathleen and Deaglan looked up from the chess board. Neither of them knew much about chess, but it was an excuse to stare at each other while pondering moves. "Said she was going to the library after work," Deaglan said. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," said Michael, carefully keeping his tone breezy and nonchalant. He was there ostensibly to walk Kathleen home; Mr. Collins was out on government business, and Deaglan and his sister were totally wrapped up in each other. He was bored, that was all. Ok, so he'd come an hour early; it didn't mean he cared.

He picked up a book, leafed idly through its pages. Put it down again. Books reminded him of Aislinn. Where the hell was she?

Another fifteen minutes crawled by. Was she seeing someone? It was all right if she was, as long as she was okay, he told himself. But she should have been home by now.

At 8:00 he gave up the pretence. "I'm going to the library," he announced.

"All right," said Kathleen absently. "I think I just captured your bishop!" she crowed in delight. Michael glared at them and left.

Aislinn was not at the library. The librarian was surprised at his question, and told him that she had not been there all day. He sat on the front step and worried. This was not like her. She worked until five, and then came right home. The library was the only other place she went; he was sure of it. Maybe by now she was home. His footsteps quickened as he returned to the Collins home, on the edge of panic now.

As Michael came up the front walk, he saw a small figure in the distance, trudging up the walk toward him. She slowed when she saw him, and he could see that her face was tear-stained.

"Where have you been?" The words came out more harshly than he had intended. "I-we've been worried about you!"

She stared at him as if at a stranger, and then opened her mouth and said, in a flat voice, "They took me in."

"What? Who? Where?" Michael realized that he wasn't making sense, and started again. He took her by the arms and looked into her eyes, as he asked, "Who took you in?"

"The RIC. They came to the brewery at closing and took me with them. I didn't even have time to tell Deaglan! They took me to their station and questioned me for hours…about Uncle Michael…about you." Her voice shook with the memory.

Michael's blood froze. "What did they do to you?" His voice was raspy with anger and fear for her. "Did they hurt you?"

"N-no," she said slowly, as if in a daze. "They were very polite, at first. But when they realized that I had nothing to tell them, they became angry. They-they threatened me, Michael, but I didn't tell them anything. There's nothing to tell! And they had to let me go. I was so scared! I hate this war!" She put her head in her hands and began to cry…deep sobs that shook her body. Without thinking, Michael took her into his arms and simply held her while she let all the fear and anxiety out. She didn't pull away; laid her head on his chest and let it all go.

"Shhh, a stór," Michael murmured to her. "It'll be all right, I'm here now, no one will hurt you." He continued to croon soft phrases, rocking her until her shaking subsided and she relaxed in his arms. It occurred to him as they stood there that this was exactly what she had done for him over a month ago, and suddenly he grinned.

"We're even." He pulled away and looked into her tear-streaked face. She stared at him for a moment, and then slowly a smile spread.

"I guess we are," she told him. And just like that, they were friends again.

 **November 10, 1920**

 **The Branson Flat**

"How was your day, darling?" Sybil asked, as Tom came into the flat. There was no answer. He hung up his coat in the front hall, crossed over and kissed his wife and daughter, and flung himself down in the chair by the hearth.

"Was it a rough day?" Sybil tried again.

"Umph." Tom grunted.

"Would you like mouldy cheese and stale bread for dinner, dear?"

"That would be grand."

Sybil rolled her eyes. She got up, put the baby into her cradle, and crossed to where her husband sat, staring into the fire. She knelt on the carpet and looked into his eyes. "All right, what's wrong, darling? Did something happen at work?"

Tom stared at her, but his eyes were far away. "I watched them hang a young man today." His voice was bleak. "He was only eighteen years old, Sybil, and now he'll never have a chance to be a man, have a family, love someone…like you…". His words trailed off.

"Who was he?" his wife asked softly. This was what Tom's work entailed sometimes. She couldn't even imagine how the constant exposure to the ferocity of this war tore at his soul, tried to eat away at his humanity. He had to follow the tragedies, report on the unfairness, on man's cruelty to his fellow man, every single day. He was the bravest person she knew. And all she could do was be there for him when he came home…and thank God that he did come home.

Tom pulled Sybil up and into his arms. He hugged her fiercely to him, as if the contact was all that was keeping him together. "His name was Kevin Barry. He had a mother, and two sisters, and a Gran. He was somebody's son, brother, grandson. He was loved. And he was in the IRA. He took part in an ambush that killed three British soldiers, and today I watched him hang for it. Where does it all end, Sybil? How can we raise Abby in such a world? Am I doing wrong to put my family in this kind of danger? Is Ireland worth it?"

"I don't know," Sybil answered honestly. "All I know is that this is your world, and mine now, and I don't think we could do anything else or be anywhere else. How could you live with yourself if you ran away from this, if you abandoned Ireland to her own foolishness? Abby is growing up in terrible times, but we can't protect her by running, Tom."

She leaned back and looked deep into his troubled eyes. "And I don't think Abby is who you're worried for right now, is she?"

Tom gave her a weak smile. "You know me too well. No…it's Michael. I worry about him every day, and this hanging just brought it home again. I know he's smart, and a grown man, not a child like this poor lad today. I also know that without the Volunteers we'd be at the mercy of the British Army and Ireland would have no chance.

"But he's a soldier, Sybil, and he's taking his life into his hands every day! He's right in the thick of it all the time. And I don't like how much time he spends over at the Collins house. I admire Michael Collins… I do, but I don't like where his passion leads him sometimes. Did you know that he has a special group of soldiers called the Squad, who perform assassinations of RIC and British officers for him?"

Sybil shook her head. She knew that Tom tried to keep much of the horror of the war out of their home, and she appreciated it, but she also worried about his holding so much inside. She read his articles, discussed them with him, but this "squad" was something entirely new.

"It's been around since last March," Tom went on. "Collins is in charge of intelligence for the IRA. He's a spy, and spies do terrible things in wartime. They have to be ruthless; there's no room for compassion. And I worry that Michael is spending so much time with him. I trust my brother's judgement to a point, but that man is so persuasive, so magnetic…I just worry, that's all."

"We all do," Sybil agreed. "But even though he's over there more, Kathleen says he's spending less time with Mr. Collins lately. And do you know why?" She grinned at him suddenly.

Tom's eyebrows went up in question.

"Because he's spending it with Deaglan's sister!" She gave her husband a triumphant grin, happy to take his mind off the war.

"What? Michael…finding time to notice a girl? I don't believe it! And how come I don't know this? He never said anything to me!"

Sybil snorted. "You don't know about it because _he_ doesn't realize what's happening to him yet! I know that you took the lead in our relationship, but you're special." She kissed him lightly. "Usually, a man is the last to know when a woman is after his heart!"

 **November 12, 1920**

 **Downton Abbey**

"The newspapers you requested, my lady." Carson handed Edith a stack of newspapers.

"Thank you, Carson," she said, her voice listless. Carson went on his way, shaking his head. There was something quite wrong with Lady Edith. Was he the only one to notice? He had been surprised when she went to visit Lady Sybil, more surprised when she had not returned after a suitable time. And then, after a year in that godforsaken country, she had come back. Carson did not like surprises, and he most certainly did not like mysteries. Lady Edith was back where she belonged, but somehow she was not _here_. She had always been a bit moody, but now she seemed to be in a fog much of the time.

All she did was mope around the house all day, reading the papers from Ireland. She lacked the energy even to spar with her sister, although heaven knew Lady Mary tried. As well she should, Carson thought. Someone needed to break through the misery with which Lady Edith had surrounded herself. She would make herself sick if she kept on like this! This was what came of leaving home, the butler thought darkly.

Unaware of Carson's ruminations, Edith took the papers to a chair in a corner of the library, opened the first one, and began to read. She began with Tom's paper, _The Irish Bulletin,_ looked for his articles and read each one word for word, and then continued through _The Irish Times, The Irish Independent_ , and _The Herald_. She read everything, occasionally taking notes, and then she started over and read them all again. Lady Edith Crawley was grieving, and her grief was dogged and singleminded.

She did not discuss what she read with her parents or her sister. It was hers and hers alone, and she could not bear to share. No one would have understood anyway. Edith knew that her mother was worried about her, but she didn't care. A part of her blamed Cora for the decision she had made to leave Ireland, although she knew it to be unfair. She had no one but herself to blame.

She stopped suddenly, her eye caught by an advertisement in the _The Irish Times._ "Grand Opening of Branson and Ryan Furniture, Saturday, November 20!" Her fingers clutched the carved bead necklace she always wore as tears blurred her vision. So, he had done it. He was opening his furniture shop. Patrick's dreams were coming true…and she was no longer a part of them. The weight of it threatened to crush her. She let the paper fall to the floor as she thought about him…his beloved face, his humor, his love for her shining through his clear blue eyes.

She did not allow herself to envision his face on the day she told him she was leaving; that would have broken her. She had been right to leave, she assured herself. Love wasn't always enough; staying would have destroyed them both in the end. She was tied to this life, the pampered, stultifying life she had been raised to accept and now hated. She would never have made it in Ireland, although it was all she thought of in the long, dull days. She was a coward…she would never have been accepted, she insisted to herself.

 _Except by him,_ said a small voice. _He would have accepted you, treasured you, made your life real._ The voice went on, telling her that she had made the worst mistake of her life, that she would never be happy again. She bowed her head and let the tears come as she cycled through the stages of grief again, just as she had done every single day since her return from Ireland.

* * *

 **A/N:** On November 1, 1920, 18-year-old IRA volunteer Kevin Barry was hanged in Dublin for his part in an ambush in which three British soldiers were killed. He was the first Irish republican to be executed since the leaders of the Easter Rising, and a member of a group of IRA members executed in 1920-21 who are known as "The Forgotten Ten".

 **A/N:** In the early days of the war, intimidation tactics, boycotting, and persuasion succeeded against many RIC and British officers. However, others began to increase their activities against Irish republicans, and in March of 1920 Michael Collins, in his role as Director of Intelligence, authorized the selection of a small group of men to form an assassination unit. Originally the "Squad", as it was known, consisted of twelve men who were called the "Twelve Apostles".

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan


	19. The Mad Destruction

_What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or in the holy name of liberty or democracy? -_ Mahatma Gandhi

 **November 14, 1920**

 **The Branson Home**

"This family has been working too hard," Daniel announced, as he reached for another helping of bacon. "We're going to have some fun! Bern and I have decided that next Sunday the women are going on a picnic in the park, and the men…"

The family was gathered for Sunday dinner at the Bransons'. As Sybil looked around the table, she saw the effects of the last year stamped on every face and had to agree with her brother-in-law. There had been a lot of excitement for this family—some of it good, some very much the opposite.

Kathleen was bubbling like a simmering pot as usual—young love will do that to you, Sybil thought with affection. Deaglan had been good for her. He seemed a nice lad in spite of Tom's concerns about his uncle, and he was obviously besotted with Katie. They'd been walking out for nearly a year now; she wondered if an announcement might be forthcoming soon.

She watched her adorable niece and nephew as they stuffed food into their mouths. When had they grown up? she wondered in amazement. Connor was four and a half, Fiona almost two. She glanced at her own daughter, sleeping peacefully for a change in the small cot across the room. She was going to grow up too, she realised with a pang. It was all going too fast.

Bernadette was pregnant again. She hadn't said, but nobody could glow like that, from the inside out, unless a baby was on the way. From Sybil's lofty vantage point as the mother of the most adorable baby in Christendom, she knew things about motherhood, and she was sure of it.

It might be why Daniel was more ebullient than usual, she thought. Or he might just be basking in the success of his new furniture venture. His and Patrick's. Her eyes went to her youngest brother-in-law, and her face clouded with concern.

Patrick had changed over the last month. He said little to anyone, other than the normal pleasantries, and his effervescent nature seemed to have been pressed out of him as if by a huge weight. He was simply there, but he didn't participate. The only thing he cared about was work, but even when family and friends congratulated him on his success, he wasn't really present in the moment.

It was Edith, of course. Damn her sister, Sybil thought with sudden anger. Why couldn't she have had the courage to face the challenges that loving Patrick presented. Because Edith had loved him—Sybil knew it with every fibre of her being. She had never seen her sister so happy as when she had been here, and she didn't understand her inability to stand up to the pressure.

Was it just the problem of finding something to do? No one understood as well as she did how difficult it was to find your place in an environment so alien to everything you knew. It had taken her _forever_ to find work, and even then it had been partly due to circumstances beyond her control. But when you loved someone, you persevered. You didn't give up and run home with your tail between your legs.

She found Tom's hand under the table and squeezed, enjoying that small thrill of happiness as his clear blue eyes met hers and he squeezed back. When you loved someone, she thought as he favored her with that grin, you didn't quit. You just didn't. You stayed the course.

Sybil's eyes traveled around the table to Michael. He seemed preoccupied these days, too, but not in the same way as Patrick. His thoughts seemed elsewhere, and Sybil thought she knew where—and with whom—those thoughts might be. But there was more. He seemed worried about something. He hadn't been on about Michael Collins much lately, hadn't been quoting the man or touting his greatness. She wondered if something had soured his hero worship a bit.

Michael's membership in the IRA had always frightened her. She knew he was passionate about his country's independence, but he didn't seem to have the ruthlessness that so many of those men had, the willingness to kill at a moment's notice on the orders of zealots like Michael Collins. Oh, Ireland's future needed men like that, she knew. She just didn't think Michael was one of them.

She wondered if Mr. Collins sensed it too. He certainly had to have noticed the growing friendship between Michael and his niece—the man was in intelligence, after all! Maybe he was keeping Michael out of the loop on purpose, for reasons of his own. She hoped so.

Her eyes rested on Claire Branson. Mam had a look of strain about her these days, too. Sybil knew that she missed Maire desperately. She could not imagine what it would be like if Abby was separated from her by space and time like that. Children grew up and sometimes moved away…she spared a guilty thought for her own mother. She loved Mama, dearly, but she and Cora had never had the bond shared by Claire and her daughters. That was another difference in the class system. Working class Irish families like the Bransons were forced by circumstance and need to depend on each other; they shared a closeness that her own family would never understand.

"…so the men are going to Croke Park for the match." Sybil's attention snapped back to Daniel. "Dublin is playing Tipperary for the league title, and we're going to see it. All of us!" he said ominously, as Patrick opened his mouth to say something. "No excuses!" Patrick closed his mouth and his shoulders slumped. "It'll be a celebration—for the shop, and for something else." He looked at his wife, who was staring at her plate with a blush staining her cheeks.

"There is going to be another Ryan at this table. Bern and I are having a baby, and I may never see a moment of freedom again!" Bernadette punched his arm, and he laughed down at her.

 **November 21, 1920, Morning**

 **Dublin**

It was only nine o'clock in the morning, and Johnny Malone was bored. He stood in front of the Gresham Hotel on O'Connell Street and scuffed his feet on the sidewalk, his thoughts grim. A newsboy never gets to take part in the news, he lamented to himself. All the exciting things that were happening in his city these days, and he saw them only as headlines in the papers he sold. He wanted to _do_ something, make a difference. He wanted to join the war for his country's independence.

But he was only fourteen—too young to join the Volunteers, too young to fight, too young for anything. He had been born too late. His parents were republicans. The war was a frequent topic of conversation at the Malone dinner table. They did what they could for the cause—gave money, visited prisoners. But his mother drew the line at her only son joining the IRA. He could join when he turned eighteen, she said, if they still needed him. It would be his decision to make then. But he knew that in four years, the war would most likely be long over. He would have missed his chance.

Johnny had to content himself with reading his own newspapers, avidly following the careers of his heroes in the IRA. He idolized Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera, read the exploits of Dan Breen and James Cahill and Paddy Moran in his newspapers and dreamed of joining them. But he never would, unless he ran away and lied about his age, and he knew he couldn't do that to his Mam. It would kill her.

He glanced up at the noise of footsteps in the street, and saw a group of some eight or nine men coming toward him, hands in their pockets, caps shielding their faces. It was odd for so many men to be hanging about together these days, a sure fire way to attract the attention of the RIC. It was also strange that none of them were talking to each other or making eye contact. Johnny's newsboy senses pricked up as he watched them enter the hotel in silence.

And suddenly his excitement got the best of him. He knew one of those men! Had seen his picture in the paper countless times!

"Cahill!" he called out. "James Cahill!" The man looked up, startled, and Johnny's words froze in his mouth. He backed away, chilled by what he saw in the man's eyes. They were flat, dark, and as those eyes made contact with his Johnny Malone saw a fixed purpose—and he saw something else in their depths. He saw death. Johnny dropped his newspapers and ran for his home, grateful for the first time to be fourteen and too young to be a part of this war.

A few minutes later shots rang out inside the Gresham Hotel, and two suspected British intelligence officers were dead. The IRA assassins slipped away in the Sunday morning calm, as silently as they had come.

All over central Dublin that morning, the pattern was repeated. By the time the shooting stopped, fourteen suspected British agents had been killed, many of them in their beds, in assassinations ordered by Michael Collins. Johnny Malone had finally taken part in the war. Unknown to him as he sat shaking in his bedroom, this was the day that would go down in history as Bloody Sunday, and it was just beginning.

 **November 21, 1920, Afternoon**

 **Croke Park, Dublin**

"Da, who's the best football man?"

"Can I sit with Unca Tom?"

"Unca Pat, these seats are old _._ You should make them some new ones!"

'Da, can I—"

"Connor, give it a break, lad!" laughed his father, ruffling his small son's hair. Connor was jumping up and down as if on an invisible trampoline, taking in the crowd, the smells, and the huge grassy field. This was the first outing he was old enough to remember, and in truth there had not been many opportunities for pleasure on this scale in his young life. His excitement was understandable, but exhausting.

All the Branson men had turned out for the Gaelic football match between Dublin and Tipperary. The women were on their outing to the park, except for Claire and Bernadette. Bern had been experiencing bouts of morning sickness, and Claire decided to stay home with her. "Someone has to feed you lot when you get home," Claire said, "so go…all of you. Have fun!" Sybil, Kathleen, Fiona, and little Abby set out for the city park to enjoy the crisp fall afternoon, and Bernadette settled herself on the couch with a book and some rare peace and quiet.

Although Tom would never admit it, he was enjoying this rare escape from Miss Abigeál Branson, and from the stress of work. Soon enough he'd be happily back with his two darling girls, but a day out with the other Branson men was something to be savored. He intended to enjoy every minute.

Patrick and Michael followed Daniel, Tom, and Connor into Croke Park, each occupied by his own thoughts. Neither wanted to be there, but for different reasons. Michael was wishing he had gone to the Collins', because he knew that Aislinn's uncle would be away all day on IRA business. He'd said as much the last time they had spoken, putting particular emphasis on the day for some reason, so he knew Aislinn would be home alone. But here he was, hanging out with his family instead of his girl.

Wait! What? _His girl?_ He was surely losing it—what a hare-brained idea! But as Michael Branson followed the others into Croke Park, a smile began to spread over his face.

Patrick was thinking of Edith…again. He was going to have to get a grip and move on. He knew he was being immature and stupid, letting this affect him so deeply. When something was over, it was over, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. It had been grand, but she was gone. And he had work, and the new shop was doing amazingly well…he should be enjoying his success instead of moping like a sad puppy. She wasn't the only woman in the world—God had made plenty of them. He followed his family into Croke Park, listening as his mind tried to lie to his heart.

As the match progressed, Connor became bored. "Da, I haf to use the toilet!" he announced. Daniel rolled his eyes.

"Of course you do! It's only the third time! Well, lad, let's go." Hand in hand, they wandered off toward the toilets.

"Good thing he left Fiona home," Tom commented. "He's missed half of the match. Wonder what he'll do when he has three!"

Michael stood up, restless. "I'm going for a pint, anyone else in?"

Aye, sure," his brothers mumbled, their eyes glued to the field.

"I'll get one for Dan then, too."

Michael worked his way through the crowd toward the pub stand near the entrance to the park. Suddenly he heard pounding feet, and looking up saw a group of men racing in, pushing and shoving to get past. Ticket sellers, by their clothing. As a lad ran past him and into the arena, Michael saw the panic in the rolling whites of his eyes. What the hell—?

And then he heard the shots. Looking past the fleeing park workers, Michael saw three armored cars pulled up to the kerb, with at least five lorries parked behind them. Military! As he watched in horror, Black and Tans poured out of the lorries and joined those already running toward the park entrance, firing their weapons indiscrimately as they came on. Right into the crowd of unwittinging spectators, deliberately!

With his IRA training, it took Michael only a second to assess the threat, and then he was racing back to his family, fear lending speed to his feet. A bullet whistled past his head, too close, and a man ten feet ahead of him went down. He reached the section where his family sat and screamed, "It's the Tans!" They're shooting at people! Get down!"

Tom reacted instantly, pulling Patrick down next to him, and Michael joined them on the cement floor of the stadium seating, everyone trying to keep perfectly still. From their position, they saw the soldiers rush past their section into the park, firing at will into the crowd.

Now people were becoming aware of the horror that was unraveling in front of them, and they began to mob toward the gates, looking desperately for a way out of the line of fire. A man fell in the passage and was immediately trampled by those behind him as they stampeded mindlessly past. A young boy tripped and fell in the aisle near where the Bransons crouched, and Michael reached out and dragged him into the seats, hissing at him to be still. The Tans continued firing, and one of the footballers went down on the pitch in a shower of blood.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the carnage was over. The soldiers melted away, the lorries and armored cars peeled off from the kerb, and an eerie silence fell over Croke Park. The Bransons staggered to their feet to see people on the ground in the stands and along the walkways, a few unmoving, others slowly getting up. A moaning sound began and swelled and was joined by a keening from those holding mates and loved ones who had been shot or trampled. The sound was chilling in its pain and sorrow, reflecting the horror of this day's unspeakable violence.

Tom moved in a daze to the man who had been trampled, helping him to stand. He continued on to a young man with glazed eyes who was sitting on the step and moaning softly, holding his hand to a bleeding wound in his shoulder. Ripping the sleeve from the man's shirt, Tom wrapped it tightly around the wound as he had seen Sybil do once, and told the lad to hold his hand over the cloth and keep pressing. A man who had been seated in the next row hurried over and told them he was a doctor, and Tom thankfully gave the job over to him.

Others had sprung into action now, aiding those who could walk, comforting those who could not. Michael was supporting an older man who had been pushed down and nearly trampled by those fleeing in panic, helping him into a seat. Patrick looked up from helping a dazed man who had been caught in the stampede, and stared down at the pitch, where the Tipperary players clustered around the still body of their teammate. How could this have happened? he thought. What was this city—this country—becoming? And again he thought of Edith. Maybe she had been right to go. This was no place for a lady. No place for anyone. He sighed, and turned back to do what he could to help.

Suddenly Tom stood still and looked around, as a feeling of dread gripped him. He turned to the others, the color draining from his face.

"Where's Daniel?" he rasped. "Where's Connor?"

* * *

 **A/N:** November 21, 1920, "Bloody Sunday", marked the worst single day of violence in the Irish War of Independence. The day was marked by appalling acts on both sides and began with the murder of 14 British spies and their associates on the orders of the Michael Collins. The response of the Black and Tans was as swift as it was brutal. Lorry loads of soldiers made their way to Croke Park in the afternoon, where tens of thousands of Irish Nationalists were gathering to watch a Gaelic football match between Dublin and Tipperary. The ground became a war zone as the crowd came under an indiscriminate hail of bullets and, within minutes, 13 civilians and one footballer lay dead or dying, and at least 60 more were injured.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan


	20. Triumph of Truth

_Peace is the beauty of life. It is sunshine. It is the smile of a child, the love of a mother, the joy of a father, the togetherness of a family. It is the advancement of man, the victory of a just cause, the triumph of truth._ \- Menachem Begin

 **December 1, 1920**

 **Downton Abbey**

"What is wrong with those people?" Robert Crawley put down the _London Times_ and picked up a piece of toast.

"With whom, dear?" Cora asked absently. Her attention was on Edith, who sat across the table toying with her food. She had lost weight, Cora noticed. Her eyes were sunken in her cheeks, and even her skin had taken on a pallid color. Something had happened in Ireland, she was sure of it, but as long as her daughter refused to talk about her time there, she could do little about it, beyond worrying. Since Mary and Matthew had married last year and moved into the family's London house, Downton seemed emptier than usual, and Edith was _not_ helping. Even the sniping between sisters would have been better than this!

"Those Irish!" Robert expostulated, waving his toast in the air. A fork clattered, and Edith's head came up. "They _will_ insist on trying to kill themselves and everyone around them. I truly worry about Sybil…and Tom", he added grudgingly. "And now they've gone and added a Fenian grandchild into the mix—someone else we have to worry about. It's just not safe over there; thank goodness you came to your senses and came home, Edith!"

Edith flushed but said nothing. Her fingers clenched around her fork.

"Now, Robert," said his wife, "it's not that bad, really. Sybil and Tom live in a lovely flat in a good part of Dublin, and Abby is the most adorable baby. Which you would know, if you had come with me to visit them!" Cora knew that Robert's bluster had more to do with worry for the safety of his daughter and his grandchild than with any real concern over the "Irish Question", as they called the whole mess in their set.

"I'm not setting foot on that island until this disagreement between the Irish and the British army is over and done with!" he rumbled. "I damn well nearly died the last time I was over there!"

He picked up the newspaper and brandished it. "And now it's gotten worse! That ruffian Michael Collins and his hired hounds have assassinated high-ranking members of the British Army…in their beds! A coward's path!" He took another bite of his toast. "And of course the army retaliated…what could they expect?"

"What happened, Papa?" Cora looked up, startled, at the sound of Edith's voice.

"Another country heard from," said her father. "Nice to hear you can still speak, Edith. Well, what they did was go after the killers in this "Squad" of Collins'. They tracked them to a football match and apparently fourteen people are dead."

Edith's voice was sharp. "Wasn't it rather reckless Of them to shoot at people when there were so many innocent civilians around?"

"If you were a soldier, you would understand," her father said loftily. "The IRA have taken the dispute to the streets—they are the ones who are reckless, in my opinion. Am I not justified in worrying about my daughter and my grandchild?" He glared at Edith, daring her to argue _._

Carson came into the breakfast room with a silver tray, on which rested a single envelope. "A letter for you my lady," he announced to Edith. Edith glanced at the return address, and then snatched the missive from the tray and stood up. "Please excuse me," she muttered, and hurried out of the room.

In the library, Edith tore open the letter from Sybil. As she read, her eyes grew large and her hand crept up to clutch the necklace around her throat. For a long time afterward, she sat as if turned to stone, staring blindly into the fireplace. He had been there! Patrick had been at the scene of the massacre; he could have died! A soft whimper forced its way between her tight lips.

Her body shook with suppressed sobs at the thought of what could have happened to that wonderful, amazing man. She remembered Sybil's anguish and worry over Tom when he had been shot by those British soldiers her father thought so highly of, and something clicked into place.

 **December 23, 1920**

 **The Collins Home**

"It's an insult!" Michael's blue eyes flashed fire as he faced Aislinn. " _Another_ Home Rule bill? Do they really think we're so stupid as to accept this tripe?" He resumed pacing the sitting room, hands plunged into his pockets.

"Well, doesn't it offer us more rights than we had before?" Aislinn asked. "We still have our parliament, and Sinn Féin still has most of the voting power, right?"

Michael stopped pacing suddenly and ran his fingers through his dark blond hair, making it stand on end. Aislinn giggled. He looked for all the world like a small boy having a temper tantrum, she thought. It seemed to be a Branson trait. Michael frowned at her.

"This isn't funny, Aislinn!" he rounded on her, but she stood her ground. "All this fighting, and it seems as if we're getting nowhere. All this Act does is push the north further away, and closer to England. It's as if we're stuck in the mud, and sinking!"

Aislinn fixed her dark eyes on him, willing him to listen. "Michael, nothing is going to change the fact that the counties in the north aren't Catholic, and they won't agree to a government run by Catholics in the South. You know that! I know that this doesn't give us our freedom from England, not yet, but it's a start, isn't it?" She sat down on the couch and beckoned him to join her.

He sighed. "I know. I'm just so tired of it all. I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking for the next Tan around the corner, or stealing weapons from the RIC. I want it to be over." He looked so desolate that Aislinn moved to pull him down on the couch beside him, forcing him to look at her.

"It'll be over some day, and Ireland will be free. I have faith, and you must too, Michael. And it's because of people like you. People who are brave and honorable at the same time. War is ugly, Michael, but sometimes there are bright sparks in it, and you are one of those sparks!"

She stopped, embarrassed. Michael was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before, and suddenly, without warning, he pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her. As their lips met, Aislinn thought, _Ahhh, I was right to give this one a chance._ And then she stopped thinking at all for awhile.

As Michael left, in much better spirits than when he had arrived, he told her, "Don't forget, tomorrow at our house at half five. Make sure Deaglan isn't late!"

Aislinn laughed. "As if Deaglan would be late to anywhere Kathleen is! Don't worry, we'll be there." As she closed the door and leaned against it, she could hear Michael whistling "Molly Malone" as he walked away, and a slow smile spread over her face.

 **December 24, 1920**

 **The Branson Home**

Evan gazed around at the chaos, and marveled. A year ago he had been spending a lonely Christmas Eve in the barracks, listening with one ear to his comrades as they bragged about the success of the army in Ireland, lamented the poor quality of the food in this godawful country, and expressed fervent hope that this war would be over soon so they could go home to England. In one short year he had met the most beautiful girl in the world and fallen in love. He had saved her from his own people, been arrested and saved in turn by her family, traveled across the ocean, and gotten married.

He would have been laughed out of Murphy's Pub if he'd spun a yarn like that, and yet it was all true. Sometimes he had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. The peace he had found, not just with Maire but with her whole crazy, wonderful family, was Evan's victory over loneliness…his triumph of truth.

The proof was right here, in this humble row home in Dublin. He looked at his wife across the room, watched her chasing little Connor around with reckless abandon, and his heart swelled. Maire was a natural with children, he thought. That little boy had been through the worst this war could throw at him, and he didn't even know it. Last month he and his father, Daniel, had been separated from the rest of the family when the world blew apart on Bloody Sunday, as the papers were calling it, and when they had finally been reunited with the rest of the Branson men, all Connor could talk about was the ice cream his Da had bought him! Daniel, visibly shaken, had somehow shielded him from it all.

Evan had discovered that he quite liked Daniel. Although the man was nearly ten years his senior, they shared a quiet, self-effacing nature that belied a fierce loyalty to those they loved. Evan had barely known Maire's brother-in-law before the older man had played a key part in his rescue last summer, but the two had bonded over football and fine Irish whiskey during their visit this holiday, Daniel acting as something of a mentor to the Englishman. His guide, Dan called it, to all things Irish.

"She's different," said Daniel, following Evan's gaze. "You've sanded off the rough edges some, given her a nice polish."

"She's not a piece of wood, Dan!" Evan laughed, but secretly he was pleased. He'd never want to tame Maire; her wild spirit was what had made him fall in love with her, but sometimes all that fire could be a bit exhausting. His wife had learned to control her temper, at least most of the time, and the reason was that she simply could not get a rise out of him. He did not argue; he reasoned. And Maire found his constancy comforting. She felt safe with him…safe and loved. They were an odd pair, but in a family abounding in odd pairings, they worked.

Maire caught her husband's eye and winked at him, moving to sit beside her sister Kathleen and Deaglan's sister Aislinn. "What's wrong with Patrick?" she asked. Kathleen followed her gaze into the kitchen where her brother was seated with Tom, Deaglan, and Michael, embroiled in a heated game of Twenty Five.

"Oh, he's much better," Kathleen answered her. "You should have seen him a few months ago. Look, he's taking part in the game, isn't he? He used to just mope around all the time, unless he was working. I think he was really heels up over Sybil's sister. It takes time, you know."

"Well, look at you, all full of knowledge about love!" Maire teased her sister. "Just because you think you've found the perfect man, you know it all now, do you?" Kathleen blushed and punched her on the arm.

Maire sobered as she looked at Patrick. No, he wasn't all right. Those who saw him every day might think he was improving, but she could tell he was very different from the Patrick she had left behind when she'd sailed to America. He was suffering. It wasn't in his nature to brood, and he was putting a good face on it, but he was bleeding inside. And armed with her new understanding of what it was like to love and be loved, Maire thought she understood his pain.

And something else surprised her. The old Maire would have wanted to hunt Edith down and maim her for hurting her brother. But instead, she thought she understood what had driven Sybil's sister away. Edith could have been her, three months ago when Evan proposed and she couldn't say yes. Fear and anxiety about what such a love could do had frozen her, almost ruined everything. If she had allowed Evan to leave Ireland without her, if she hadn't overcome her pride and gone to him, that shadow person in the kitchen might be her. And suddenly she wondered what Sybil's sister was doing tonight.

Across the room, Sybil came up beside Claire and put her arm around the older woman's shoulders. "This is how you wanted it, isn't it, Mam?" she said, looking around at her family. "Everybody here, all together and safe. A perfect Christmas!"

Claire Branson smiled and patted her hand. "You know, dear, sometimes I worry about Ireland's future, or about money, or any number of things. But when I have my family gathered around me, and feel all this love, I realise just how lucky I am."

A shout erupted from the kitchen. "That was _not_ trump, damn you!" Michael bellowed at Tom. "You cheated!"

"I did not! If you knew the rules, maybe you wouldn't be losing!" Tom threw back.

"Yes, indeed," said Sybil, her eyes dancing. "So lucky. Let's go rescue them from all that love, shall we? They need to stop fighting before we go to Mass."

As they crossed through the hall on their way into the kitchen, Sybil thought she heard a knock on the front door. "Michael," she called, "did you invite someone else?"

"No," he yelled. "But see who it is, and ask them if they can play Twenty Five. They can take your cheating husband's place! Ow!"

Sybil shook her head. She opened the door—and recoiled in astonishment. On the step, her face white as a ghost, stood her sister Edith.

"Edith! You're—what—how—?" Sybil's voice trailed off.

"I- I shouldn't have come, but I—I just thought—I wanted—oh, Sybil, this is so hard!" Edith swayed slightly.

"Who is it?" asked Claire, from behind Sybil. She saw the forlorn figure on the doorstep and her eyes narrowed to slits. "Oh. It's you." Her voice was hard.

Edith flinched at the tone. "I just wanted to make sure that Patrick—that everyone— was really all right…" Her voice was a whisper. "I read about what happened at Croke Park, and Sybil said Patrick was there, and…"

"He's fine," snapped Claire. Sybil put a hand on her arm, but she shook it off. " _Now._ "

Edith shrunk further into herself. "I'm s-sorry, I shouldn't have come. I'll go back to the hotel." She turned, and Sybil noticed for the first time that a car was waiting in the street, it's engine still running. _Oh, Edith,_ she thought. " _You expected to be turned away. You were ready."_ Her heart went out to her sister.

"Wait!" came another voice. "It's Christmas Eve," said Maire. "You must be freezing out here. Please come in." With a pointed look at her mother, she extended her hand, and numbly, Edith took it and allowed herself to be pulled into the foyer. Claire let out a loud huff and walked away toward the kitchen.

"It's nice to see you, Maire," said Edith shyly. "You look well."

"Thank you, I am." Another long silence descended. _And you look terrible,_ Maire thought.

"Mam said you ladies needed me," said Tom, coming around the corner, and then stopping short at the sight of his sister-in-law. "Edith!" He looked helplessly at Sybil. "This is—a surprise."

Daniel and Evan had heard the commotion at the door and joined the growing crowd.

"Evan," Maire said brightly, "you remember Edith, Sybil's sister?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. Hullo, Edith." They were all speaking in whispers, as if trying to keep their voices from going any further than the hall.

Sybil felt as if she were floating in a dream. _Can this get any more awkward?_ she thought.

"Aunt Edith!" crowed Connor, flying into the hall. "You're back! Unca Pat will be so happy!" He ran off, screeching "Unca Pat, Unca Pat…guess what?"

And then he was there. The others melted away and it was just the two of them standing in the hallway. They stood only four feet apart, but it seemed like an impassable gulf had opened at their feet.

The silence stretched. Then…"Why are you here, Edith?" Patrick asked politely.

For a moment she could not speak. Tears pooled in her eyes and ran unheeded down her cheeks. She took a gasping breath.

"I w-wanted to make s-sure you were s-safe," she stuttered. "I read about the sh-shootings in the paper—"

"I'm fine, as you can see. Thank you for your concern." So formal. Cold.

She turned and stumbled toward the door, and then turned back. "It was wrong of me to come," she choked, "I'm sorry. I've ruined everyone's holiday. I'll just go."

Patrick looked intently at her face, and then he said softly, "Why did you really come? What did you want?"

She raised her wet eyes to his, and somehow held his gaze. "You," she whispered. "I wanted you."

He blinked and for a long time said nothing. Then, "I don't know if I can do this again," he said honestly.

"I know. But I had to come. I had to try."

Without a word Patrick stepped past her. He went down the walk to the waiting car, spoke to the driver, and watched as the car drove off. He came slowly back and stood in front of her again.

"Come in, then," he said simply.

* * *

 **A/N:** On December 23, 1920, In response to the political unrest throughout Ireland, Westminster passed the Government of Ireland Act, which partitioned Ireland. Two Home Rule parliaments were created, one in Belfast for the six northeastern counties and one in Dublin for the rest of the country. The two governments had "powers of local self-government, but defence, foreign policy, and finance remained under British control. England also maintained the right to interfere in Irish affairs, insisting that "the supreme authority of the parliament of the United Kingdom shall remain unaffected and undiminished over all persons, matters and things in Ireland, and every part thereof." The north welcomed the Act, but Irish rebels ignored it and continued their military and political campaigns. The war raged on.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra

Sinn Féin - shin + fane

Tom and Edith have a discussion about writing. He gives her an idea.


	21. Do You Think?

_Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together?_

 _Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences. -_ Emery Allen

 **December 24 and 25, 1920**

 **The Branson Home**

Patrick did not go to midnight Mass. He ignored his mother's tight expression, taking comfort in the words of his sister Maire. She had pulled him aside briefly before joining the rest of the family for the walk to church, making sure that no one else could hear.

"Do what your heart tells you, Pat," she had whispered, her eyes boring into his. "No matter what anyone tells you is right for you, or wrong for you, do what makes _you_ happy! Don't worry about Mam, she loves you and wants the same thing, in the end." She tightened her grip on his arm.

"I almost lost everything," she went on, sneaking a look at her husband who waited at the front door. "I let my pride rule my heart, and I nearly gave up the only thing that mattered. _Do not_ let that happen to you!" And she was gone, without a backward look.

Patrick stared after his family for a moment, and then walked into the sitting room where Edith sat, eyes downcast, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Suddenly he was as nervous as he knew she was. He sat down a short distance from her on the couch, and waited. This was her show; it was up to her to take it where it would go. He would listen.

They sat in silence for a long time, and when her voice came it was barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry, Patrick. I'm not very brave. I was frightened, and I didn't know what to do." He nodded, but said nothing.

"It was never that I didn't care for you, you must believe me!" She raised her head and met his steady gaze. " _Do_ you believe me?"

"I do," he said. "I knew you cared…apparently just not enough." There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice, but he held her gaze. "It's all right. I'm glad you came back to tell me that much."

She stared at him. "No…no. I didn't come back to tell you I cared about you. I…came back to say I _love_ you. Now…in this moment. I realize now that I always have."

At his soft inhalation, she put up her hand. "Just please, let me finish what I must say, and then you can tell me to go." She took a deep breath.

"I'm not used to being happy. I didn't recognize it for what it was…not for a long time. And then it frightened me. _You_ frightened me, to my core. You gave me everything of yourself, and it was the most amazing thing I had ever experienced, and I was afraid. I didn't think I deserved that kind of feeling from another person. I felt like a fraud, masquerading as the kind of woman who could be loved by someone like you. I was afraid that you would discover my mask and find the real me underneath it, and I couldn't bear for that to happen!"

Edith's voice shook and her hands continued to twist the fabric of her dress, but she did not cry. It surprised her that she, who cried so easily, was dry-eyed in the most important moment of her life. She took a deep breath, and continued.

"I started to look for reasons that I shouldn't be here in Ireland. I couldn't get into a teaching school, I'd never get a job, never fit in. But they were all excuses I made to convince myself that I was right. So I did what I'm best at. I ran away.

"When I went home to Downton, it was like going back in time. Back to an era which wasn't meant for me. It was like a prison. And I began to understand that _that_ was where I would never fit in. I had been born to that life, but I never really belonged to it. I was floating through time, existing, but not living…until I met you."

She looked up again, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I know I've ruined everything, and you have no reason ever to trust me again, but I had to tell you how I feel. I love you, Patrick Branson. I have loved you for a very long time, and I will probably always love you. I came back because I wanted…I want to be with you. Here…in Ireland."

A deep silence settled over the room. Patrick cleared his throat.

"You hurt me, Edith. I won't lie about that. When you told me you were leaving, going back to your old, posh life, I was hurt, and I was angry. I thought that everything you had said, everything we'd been, was just a game to you. A way to fill your days, to have some fun before you went back to being a lady."

The blue eyes bored into hers. "But I thought that if it was all a lie, you were a _very_ good liar. Because it wasn't that way for me. It wasn't a game. He took a deep breath, looked away, and came back to focus on her face again.

"But no…you haven't ruined everything. Not by coming back. Sure and you ripped it up a bit…" and for the first time Edith caught a glimmer of humor in his blue eyes, "but you didn't ruin it. For me, it was love right from the start, and love takes a lot of hits before it's ruined. And it never really gives up." He held out his hand.

"Come here."

They sat in silence, finding that they fit into each other now just as they had all those months ago. Edith looked up into Patrick's face.

"Do you think the universe wants us to be together?" she murmured. "Do you think it was a coincidence that we met?"

"I don't know. But I think some things are too strange to be coincidences. Happy Christmas, love."

 **December 25, 1920**

 **The Branson Flat**

Tom and Sybil spent Christmas morning at home with Abby. At almost five months she was far too little to know who Daidí na Nollag was, but Sybil had made her a little sack filled with baby items. Tom watched from the doorway, his tea clutched in his hand, as his wife explained how Father Christmas came to all good little children and filled their sacks, and she must have been _very_ good, because he had been so kind to her. His heart swelled, and he thanked God as he did every single day, for this woman who had changed his life so completely. _I must have been very, very good_ , he thought. _Thanks, Daidí na Nollag._

Later, as they sat in the kitchen sharing a Christmas breakfast of surprisingly unburnt toast and bacon, they returned to the topic that had distracted them from Mass and kept them up late into the morning.

"It'll be all right, Tom," Sybil said, reading his mind as she so often did. "I know Edith. What it took for her to come back is stronger than any fear she had before. I admit, I didn't think she could do it." He nodded, but concern for his brother lurked behind his clear blue gaze.

"I wonder what she told your parents," he said finally, a quirk tugging at his mouth. "I'm trying to imagine your father's reaction, but for the life of me I can't. We should have heard him all the way over here!"

"Knowing Edith, she probably didn't tell him," Sybil offered. She looked at her husband, remembering. Had it been only a year and a half since she herself had stood in Downton"s drawing room, facing her furious father and stunned mother and sisters, and told them she was leaving for Ireland with their chauffeur? How on earth had she ever had the courage? She caught Tom's eyes again, and knew he was remembering that night, too. The anxiety, the fear that somehow they would be stopped. The love in those blue eyes as he stood quietly beside her while she had it out with her father. The night that had changed everything.

"But Edith didn't have the support I had," she said softly. "She was all alone. She probably told Mama, in private…although I can't imagine that would have been easy, either."

"Well, your mother is a bit more understanding than your father," said Tom. "And we set the standard for the Crawley girls, didn't we?" He grinned. "Come to think of it—Mary's the odd one out; all she got was some middle class future earl!" Sybil choked on her tea and Tom patted her back.

When the three arrived at the Branson home later that afternoon, Edith was not there. Patrick was helping Daniel to set up the playhouse they'd built for Connor and Fiona, with Evan's dubious help, and Bernadette was supervising. Kathleen and Maire were in the kitchen helping Mam with the goose, and the Collinses hadn't arrived yet.

But Sybil could tell with one glance that everything was different. Patrick's eyes shone as he worked, his banter with his two brothers-in-law was light and unforced. He was back from that dark place in which he had been living, back to being the old Patrick. _They're all right,_ she thought in mingled amazement and relief. Her eyes met Tom's, and he smiled. He saw it too. But there was worry in his eyes still—worry that Edith would hurt his brother again, concern over what another betrayal would do to him. It would take time, and Sybil, remembering her own early days in Dublin, did not envy her sister the road ahead.

 **January 13, 1921**

 **O'Connell Bridge, Dublin**

Deaglan stood on the bridge and stared into the muddy waters of the River Liffey, but his thoughts were far away. People hurried past him on their way to their own lives, but he didn't notice. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold.

Did he dare, he wondered? Was he finally going to ask her? He'd meant to do it at Christmas, but what with all the going's on with Patrick and his girlfriend, it just hadn't ever seemed the right time. He'd been saving for so long, finally had enough to get a place of his own…of their own. If she'd have him. He knew what they'd say—"you're only twenty-two, too young to get married. Give it time!" But he wasn't too young. Deaglan had been raised by a man who knew the value of time. His uncle was only thirty, and already the head of a formidable army, second in the country only to the president of Dáil Éireann, Éamon de Valera.

In these times, thought Deaglan, it didn't pay to wait for what you wanted. In war you seized life while you could, because anything could happen. Hadn't Patrick been beaten near to death last year by Northern Unionists? Hadn't Kathleen's older brother Tom been shot by the Black and Tans? That had been a near thing, for sure. And Deaglan himself knew that he was always a potential target, merely because of his association with his uncle.

Not everyone admired Michael Collins. Assassins generally weren't loved; patriots weren't revered by those whose opinions collided with theirs. Deaglan had to be wary of groups of men who might be looking to take out their frustrations on him or seek to harm his uncle by coming after him. The irony of it all was, Deaglan was the least political person in the family, except maybe for his sister Aislinn.

As the two had grown up, their uncle had tried to keep business separate from his family life, seldom talking about the doings of the IRA or the running of the Dáil in their home. Perhaps he had sensed that, in a family rife with passionate republicans, his nephew and niece were that rarest of creatures in Ireland—pacifists. Aislinn and Deaglan wanted Ireland to be free from England, but they hated the violence that gaining that freedom sometimes demanded. Growing up too close to the edge of it had shown them that there was no romance in this war, for either side.

His Kathleen was like that, too. She came from a pretty fiery family—hell, her brother Michael was in the IRA—but she just wanted people to live in peace.

He grinned. His Kathleen. Never in a million years had he imagined he would find someone like her. She knew his story, knew who his uncle was, and still she wanted to be with him. He was the luckiest man in the world, he was sure of it. And he was going to ask her, tonight. He was expected at the Bransons' for dinner, and he was going to get her away from her family somehow, and ask her.

The sound of gunshots rang out from one end of the bridge, where the British checkpoint was located. Screams followed the shots, and people began running toward Deaglan, pushing each other out of the way in their blind panic to get away. Confused, he turned just as a burley man barreled into him, lifting and knocking him onto the stone rail of O'Connell Bridge. It happened in seconds. He teetered on the cement rail, grasping for a handhold. In the next instant, unseen by any of the frenzied mob on the bridge, his hand lost its hold and he plummeted over the edge of the bridge. Just before he hit the frigid water of the River Liffey, his mind whispered, _Kathleen!_ For a moment he floated in the icy water, stunned. And then Deaglan's heavy coat pulled his body under the water, dragging him down into darkness.

* * *

 **A/N:** On January 13, 1921, British troops manning a checkpoint at O'Connell Bridge, in the very center of Dublin, opened fire on a crowd of civilians. It is not clear what precipitated the attack, but the result was that two Irish citizens were left dead and five were seriously wounded.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Dáil Éireann - doyl + air + uhn

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra


	22. Always Hope

_Don't give up hope just yet. It's the last thing to go. When you have lost hope, you have lost everything. And when you think all is lost, when all is dire and bleak, there is always hope._ \- Pitticus Lore

 **January 17, 1921**

 **The Collins Home**

Aislinn paced the living room. On her third trip, she rounded on Michael, who was standing in the hallway, watching her with bleak, tired eyes.

"Where is he, Michael?" she demanded. "It's been four days, and no word at all! He wouldn't do this! He's not irresponsible, and he'd never leave Kathleen wondering like this! Maybe he's hurt! Do you think he ran into some of those people who hate Uncle Michael? What if he's…" She stopped, chest heaving, eyes huge and frightened.

"No, no, Aislinn, he's not." Michael shook his head vehemently. "There's been no word, and I've been checking. The Volunteers have heard nothing. The British haven't taken him in—Tom's been to the barracks. They'd be only too happy to tell say so if they had him."

Michael took Aislinn's hands and held them tightly, continuing to list the places they'd looked, the people they'd talked to in their search for Deaglan. No one had seen him in four days. He had simply vanished. Michael would never share his deepest fears with Aislinn, but this was Ireland, and they were at war. People disappeared without a trace these days, and Michael was beginning to believe the worst. He had a very bad feeling that Deaglan was dead, one of the many victims of this horror.

As if reading his thoughts, Aislinn pulled her hands out of his and fisted them at her sides. Her eyes flashed and her voice shook.

"You think he's dead, don't you? You think one of your damn soldiers killed my brother! He never did anything to anyone—all he ever wanted was to live in peace, but you wouldn't let him!" She heard the venom in her words, but grief had her in its grip, and it needed someone to blame.

"I hate your IRA, and the Black and Tans, and everyone else in this horrible city who thinks being brave means carrying a gun and shooting before they think! All those people at the football match, going about their day, having fun. Those people at O'Connell Bridge, just on their way to work, maybe going home to see their children, and the next minute they're just gone!" Michael tried to take her hand, but she slapped him away.

If my brother is dead, it's your fault, Michael Branson! Yours, and your violence-loving friends! I hate all of you!" She sank to the floor then, as if only her grief and anger had been holding her up, and covered her face with her hands, sobbing out her worry and her fear. Michael stood helpless, twisting his cap in his hand.

"I'll find him, Aislinn. I promise. No matter what's happened, I'll find him and I'll bring him home to you. Don't give up hope yet. No matter what, there's always hope. I'll bring him home."

Aislinn said nothing, and after a few moments Michael turned and left the Collins home.

 **January 20, 1921**

 **Mater Misericordiae Hospital**

Sybil completed her rounds automatically. Sometimes, she thought, it seemed as if her life was an endless parade of worry and tragedy. The Mater was the center of the storm, the place where people came to heal…or to die. The fighting was incessant now as the war dragged on, and so many of its victims were young—too young to know what they'd gotten themselves into. Boys, full of passion and patriotism, fired up by their elders and excited to have a gun placed in their hands.

And sometimes the people coming into the Mater were innocents, people who had left their homes in the morning with dreams and expectations, only to be brought in torn and bleeding, the victims of somebody's else's passion and anger and fear. The latest, seven ordinary citizens crossing the O'Connell bridge last week, going about their own business—until the British had opened up and shot them. The Mater being the closest hospital to the bridge, they had all been brought here. And despite all their efforts, two of them had died. It never seemed to end.

Sybil wandered into the staff lunchroom later in the day, looking for a moment's peace from her whirling thoughts. She pushed her hair back under her cap, put her feet up on the chair next to her, and closed her eyes. A mistake. All she could see in her mind's eye was Kathleen's distraught face, the dark circles under eyes dull with despair. This family had been through so much, she thought; why couldn't they ever seem to get a full week of peace?

What had happened to Deaglan? Sybil knew that Michael Collins and their own Michael had been to every hospital—and every morgue— in Dublin, with no results. Tom had used all his contacts at the paper, hoping for a clue, but nothing. He'd simply disappeared. She thought of that horrible army person who had attacked Maire last year, and shuddered. People _did_ disappear, more often than one would like to think, and some were never found. If Deaglan had run into some of those thugs who hated his uncle, and if things had gone very wrong, surely they'd have left his body unburied as a message. She knew that was what Tom thought had happened, and he'd seen much more than she had in his line of work. But no body had been found. Yet.

Two nurses wandered into the lunchroom and fixed themselves cups of tea. They smiled at Sybil and settled in to finish the conversation started in the hallway.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this, Mary," said the younger of the two. So many people with god-awful injuries from this war!"

"We do what we must," chided the older nurse. "You weren't here for the Easter Rising. They just kept bringing them through, so many dead and the injured just flooding in. That was like living in Hell, I'll tell you! But we do what we must. That's what nursing is, Irene."

"I guess so," said the other nurse, her voice glum. "And I know what we do is important. I'm just tired, is all. How's your mystery man?"

Mary shook her head. "Not good. Not a war casualty, that one. Has pneumonia, and he wasn't brought in until he was pretty far gone. Been unconscious since he got here. I don't think he's going to make it, poor lad."

She clucked her tongue and moved to get up. "Well, no rest for the weary…back to the wards!" Their conversation died away as they moved into the hallway, leaving Sybil alone with her own dark thoughts. She had tried not to listen in on the conversation, but she'd heard bits of it and knew how Irene felt; sometimes the job took everything and more out of her…but she'd worked too hard to be where she was, and at the end of the day she got to go home to Tom and Abby. Despite her fear and exhaustion, a smile worked its way onto her face.

 **January 22, 1921**

 **The Branson Flat**

"So, everything is going…well?" Tom asked Edith, his voice tentative. Sybil was working an extra shift, and the two were spending Saturday at home with Miss Abigeál Branson.

Edith rolled her eyes. "D'you mean, am I going to cut and run again in the middle of the night?" Her voice was dry. "No, Tom. I'm here to stay. I'm rather tired of being a fool and a coward. Thought I'd try some courage for a change. Here, give me my niece. You're squashing her."

"I am not!" Tom said, affronted. "I'll have you know that since the colic stopped, Abby has decided that she's going to keep me. She thinks her father is rather a good lad-she's told me so any number of times." But he handed the baby over to Edith, happy to share the wealth…and besides, his nose was warning him that her nappy needed to be changed, sooner rather than later.

Edith lifted the little bottom up to her nose and sniffed, narrowing her eyes at Tom. "Oh, and aren't _you_ the clever one!" she said.

"I am, rather," he said smugly.

"I wasn't talking to _you_!" was the tart reply. "Was I, darling?" she cooed to the baby, as they went off to freshen up.

"Edith," Tom said, when she returned. "Have you decided what you want to do here…in Ireland, that is? I mean, I know you were upset when you couldn't get into a teacher's college…"

"Oh, that!" Edith waved her hand. "That was never a viable option, and I don't think I'm cut out to spend my life with children." She wrinkled her nose delicately. "Babies are okay…especially _this_ one," she paused to nuzzle Abby's nose. The baby giggled.

"…but older children?" She shuddered. "Not sure what I was thinking. Just desperate for something to do with myself, I guess." She shrugged. "It'll sort itself out. Maybe I can work in the shop…hold the can of nails for Patrick, or sweep up the wood shavings." She looked up and laughed at her brother-in-law's expression.

"Well, I've been thinking…" Tom said, his voice neutral. "Have you ever considered…writing?"

"Writing?" Edith looked confused. "You mean, books?"

"Not exactly," he said. "I was thinking a little smaller scale, to start. Sybil has read me some of your letters. Not the private parts!" he put his hand up, seeing her shocked expression. "But some of the descriptive stuff, the parts about Downton, the stories about the staff…you know."

Edith relaxed. "And…?"

"And you're good," he resumed. "Really good! You make words come alive, Edith! And I was wondering…"

Edith wrinkled her brow. "What, Tom? For heaven's sake, how do you ever get your own words down on paper, if you have so much trouble spitting them out?"

"Well, that's just it. I wondered if you'd like to try your hand at writing for a newspaper?"

"You want me to be a reporter?" She was stunned. "Crawl around in the shadows and watch the Black and Tans? Are you insane?"

"Maybe." He grinned at her. "But I wasn't thinking of your being a reporter, although that's an image I'll not soon get out of my head! I was thinking, what if you were to write a kind of journal for my paper? Let people know what it's like over here…from the point of view of an English aristocrat who has chosen to live in Ireland?"

Edith was staring at him, her eyes wide. "That's ridiculous! An Irish newspaper would never hire an Englishwoman to write for them! I love you, but you _are_ insane!" But her eyes were fixed on his, and a look of intense interest had transformed her face.

"Well, that's just it," Tom said, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back into the couch cushions as if they were discussing what to have for dinner. "I've asked them, and they _are_ interested. We don't just report on the Black and Tans, you know."

"They want me to write for them?" Edith's eyes were saucers. "They would _pay_ me? With money?"

"Now don't get carried away, sister dear. They'd probably pay you in paper clips, to start. Until they decide if you're worth more." He held her look, and then burst out laughing. "Yes, of course in money! You'd be paid for each article they accepted. It wouldn't be much, mind, but…are you interested?"

"Oh, Tom!" She jumped up and crossed the room to thrust Abby into his arms. "I have to go!"

"What?" Tom said, confused. "Where?"

"To see Patrick!" she said. "I have to tell him I have a job!"

 **January 23, 1921**

 **O'Connell Bridge, Dublin**

She hadn't meant it, Michael thought as he walked down Marlborough Street toward the River Liffey. She was just worried about her brother, and taking it out on the nearest person. But a small voice kept repeating in his head, _but she's right. It is your fault, you and every damn soldier in this city._

And Michael knew that it was over between them. Whether or not he found Deaglan's body and brought him home to her, things would never be the same between them. She would never forgive him for being who and what he was. Still, he had promised, and he would keep looking…as long as it took.

He reached Eden Quay and turned right, toward the O'Connell Bridge. It was the main route into the center of Dublin, and it was where the British Army had opened up on a group of citizens at the checkpoint ten days ago. Ten days ago had been the last time anyone had seen Deaglan. Was it just a coincidence? Michael had no reason to believe that Deaglan had been anywhere near the bridge, and he knew that he hadn't been one of the shooting victims, because they'd all been taken to the Mater and Sybil had told him who they were. But he was grasping at straws now. Maybe someone had seen something.

After an hour of questioning passers-by on the bridge, he gave up. Most of the people he talked to had not been near the bridge ten days ago; those who had were probably avoiding the place now. He hadn't really expected much. But he didn't want to go home and look at Kathleen's hopeful face, watch it crumble at his lack of news. He didn't want to think about Aislinn.

As Michael walked along the Quay, hands stuffed in his pockets, he noticed an old man sitting on a dock nearly under the bridge. He looked about a hundred years old, and as Michael neared the dock he pulled a fishing line out of the river and studied it, shoulders slumping as he saw nothing hanging on the hook. On impulse, Michael walked onto the dock.

"Any luck today, sir?" he asked politely. The old man jerked, looking alarmed. Then he relaxed as he saw the young man's friendly smile.

"Today nor any day. Water's tidal here. Not much to catch this close to the sea, but it's what I got." He gave a fatalistic shrug.

"Are you out here fishing every day?" Michael asked.

"Ever' day the weather lets me," the old man said. "Ain't caught but one thing in a month…and that wasn't no fish."

Michael looked puzzled, and the old man howled with laughter, showing a mouth that was missing a good number of teeth.

"Bout a week ago, I caught a big one!" he said. "Caught a man!"

"A man?" Confusion was growing. It was becoming clear that the old man was not possessed of all his faculties.

"Aye. He fell offn' the bridge," he pointed to the rail high above them, "and landed right in the water, out there! Went under like a rock, he did."

Something was happening to Michael's stomach. "What happened to him?" he asked, holding his breath.

"Oh, he drowned. Went and got my grandson…we live right over there," he indicated an old ramshackle building on the river's edge. "We went out in his boat, and there he was, floatin' just under the water. Tide was half out, so's the water wasn't deep. My grandson dragged him into the boat and we brought him to shore."

Michael felt sick. Whoa! he told himself. There's no reason to think…still…another coincidence. Too many coincidences.

"Wh—was he…? he couldn't finish.

"Oh. Like I said, he was drowned. In the water for fifteen 'r more minutes, you're gonna drown. But my grandson wouldn't give up. He turned him over and kept poundin' him on the back, and wouldn't you know it…after a while he coughed and half the river came out of him, and he started breathin'! My grandson said it was b'cause the water was so cold that he didn't die like he shoulda. Not right then, anyway."

Michael was trying to remain calm. "What do you mean? Where is he now?"

The old man looked frightened. "It wasn't our fault. We tried to help him. We took him up to the house, and put him to bed, but he wouldn't wake up! And after 'bout three days, he started burnin' up with fever and breathin' real rough…sounded like he was gonna die after all."

"So where is he now?" Michael asked him, dread coiling in the pit of his stomach.

"It wasn't our fault!" the old man insisted. "We tried to wake him up, and we did, once, and the one time he said somethin' in a raspy voice, like sandpaper, y' know? Only the one thing. He said _Ca-lee,_ or some such, and then he passed out again and didn't say nothin' more. He was out of his head. It wasn't our fault!"

Michael stooped so that his face was inches from that of the old man. Quietly, his voice trembling, he asked, "Could he have been saying _Kathleen?_ "

The old man cocked his head, thinking, and then nodded. "Coulda been. Yeah, coulda been that."

"And what happened to him?" he managed.

"Oh. Well, when we saw he was lookin' to die, my grandson packed him up and took him direct to the Mater. That was 'bout a week ago…most like he's dead. We done our best…it wasn't our fault!" he yelled after Michael.

But Michael was gone, running up O'Connell Street toward Mater Misericordiae Hospital, his heart in his throat.

* * *

 **A/N:** Crossing the River Liffey in the very center of Dublin, O'Connell Bridge is more a destination than a bridge. Named for Daniel O'Connell, "The Liberator" who campaigned for Catholic emancipation in the early nineteenth century, the history of the bridge is that of the city itself - rebels hung from gallows here in 1798, O'Connell's voice boomed out from here, the leaders of 1916 passed this way, shots rang out across it in the War of Independence and the Civil War and the final address of the 1932 Eucharistic Congress was given from the bridge.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan


	23. Slipping Away

_I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night. -_ Khaled Hosseini

 **January 25, 1921**

 **Mater Misericordiae Hospital**

"Kathleen, you must get some rest!"

Sybil stood in the doorway, watching her young sister-in-law with concern. Kathleen hadn't eaten or slept in the two days since they had found Deaglan. Sybil shook her head. All that time searching, and he'd been right here for more than a week. Not shot, as they had suspected, but drowned! Only Deaglan himself could tell them how he had come to be floating in the Liffey, and it was questionable if he would ever be able to do so. He was clinging to life, his lungs straining to provide the air necessary to breathe.

Pneumonia was a killer. There was little doctors could do, besides providing oxygen to the patient, to combat this disease that quietly claimed the lives of people of all ages. Deaglan's youth and health might have given him a bit of an edge, Sybil thought bitterly, if those people who had found him had not waited so long to bring him to the hospital. But that wasn't fair either, she admitted to herself. If that old man hadn't seen Deaglan fall off the bridge, and if his grandson hadn't kept trying to bring him round, he wouldn't have made it here in the first place. There was no use assigning blame; it was what it was.

Kathleen and Aislinn had barely left his bedside. When the nurses tried to get them to leave, they defiantly donned masks and refused to budge. While Aislinn had been compelled to return to work at the brewery this morning, Bernadette had bowed to the steel will in her baby sister and told her she could take as long as she needed away from the bakery. Kathleen had ordered a cot and had it set up in Deaglan's room, and there she stayed, holding his hand, talking to him, hoping for some sign of change.

"Please, Katie, you'll be no help to Deaglan if you get sick yourself!" Sybil begged her, but she knew it was no use. She remembered her own bedside vigil for Tom, and even though it had been blessedly short, she knew she would have stayed at his side no matter how long it took, and no one would have removed her. Sybil firmly believed, despite or maybe because of her medical training, that there were things out there that were greater than science. She felt that a patient could sense the presence of loved ones, could hear them somewhere deep in their fevered minds, and that concentrated love was the best—sometimes the only—medicine that worked.

Kathleen turned slowly to face her sister-in-law.

"He's better, Sybil. I think his breathing is easier, and I'm sure he hears me when I talk to him."

Her eyes above the hospital mask had dark circles beneath them, and her hair hadn't been properly combed in days. But she was beautiful, Sybil thought, lovely in her certainty that Deaglan would come back to her, that God would not take him after allowing her to find him again. Her heart broke before the naked hope she saw in Kathleen's eyes, and she knew that she could never do anything to destroy that hope, even if she didn't fully believe it herself.

"That's good, Katie. I know that Tom heard me when I talked to him; he told me so. "But," she knew she had to tread carefully here, "Deaglan needs his rest. He can't work at getting better if he's struggling to hear you. And you need to be ready when he regains consciousness, darling. Come, lie down and get some rest yourself, so you'll be there for him."

Kathleen sighed, and allowed Sybil to tuck her into the blanket on the cot. Within minutes, she was asleep.

Sybil remained for awhile watching Deaglan. He wasn't getting better. He hadn't regained consciousness since he'd been brought in last week, and his breathing seemed weaker and more ragged than before. The doctors were talking about trying a new therapy that had been moderately successful with pneumonia patients in New York and London, but it was a long shot and they didn't have a great deal of confidence in its success. If only he'd been brought in sooner!

 **January 26, 1921**

 **Letter from Claire Branson to Cora Crawley**

 _Dear Lady Grantham (Cora—it is still hard to call you that!),_

 _It has taken me a long time to bring myself to pick up a pen and begin this letter to you, my dear friend. I was afraid you wouldn't be eager to hear from me, after…you know…after Patrick and your Edith. I feel guilty, though there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I have never understood the relationship between those two, but they seem bent on being together, so I have given up hoping that it is just something that will go its way._

 _I wasn't very nice to your daughter, Cora. When she came back. I was harsh, and spiteful. I wanted her to go away, leave my son alone and go back to you, so badly. I could see the hurt in her eyes, but what did she think? That we would just welcome her back with open arms?_

 _When she left my son, he changed, and not for the better. I thought it would just take time, and he'd get over it. You see, Patrick has always been the one to leave. He had girls hanging around him all the time, and none of them meant anything so I never worried about them. And then he met your daughter, and I could see that this time it was different. He wanted to make something of himself—prove himself to her._

 _I thought she was just having fun with him, and that when she went home everything would return to normal—but I was wrong. He was broken. I'd never seen him like that…so depressed and down in the mouth. I hated her, Cora. I'm sorry, but I did. I hated your daughter for what she had done to my son. And I'll admit it…I was angry at you that you couldn't keep her over there and away from my family. I wondered why Lord Grantham couldn't make her stay in the world where she belonged! When you wrote and said that your husband didn't even know about them, and you told me how she had been so unhappy and you'd been so worried, I didn't care. I was just so angry when she showed up on my doorstep again at Christmas!_

 _But I'm writing now because I see how it is with them—they love each other. Edith is not like our Sybil—that one wormed her way into my heart almost from the beginning, and my Tom was like a peacock around her, puffed up with pride and love. He wore his love on his face. Patrick never did that. He kept his thoughts to himself, and I never realized that his new happiness was due to her._

 _Like I said, Edith is not like her sister. She never tried to stand up to me like Sybil did, and I took advantage of that. I didn't want to get to know her, care about her. I ignored her as much as possible, even though I could see how it hurt Patrick the way I treated her._

 _She came to see me last week, by herself. It hurt me just to look at her, Cora. But she seems to have found a backbone, and she forced me to listen to her. She told me about how she had been afraid of Ireland, of not being accepted here. She looked me right in the eye, daring me to argue with that, and I knew that she was right. I was a part of that rejection. And then she told me that Tom had found her a job writing for his paper, and her eyes were so wide and happy! She was like a different person. She told me that she loves Patrick, and she will not give him up. She stomped her foot when she said that!_

 _And I looked at her, finally, looked in her eyes and saw the truth in them._

 _So I'll try. I can see that I've lost this one, and if I'm cold to Sybil's sister it will hurt her, and Tom, and especially Patrick. It still hurts me, and it will take time, but every day I feel the anger and the pain slipping away a little more. I'm trying to find a place in my heart for your Edith, and I hope you can accept Patrick as you did Tom…because I very much fear that we don't have a blessed thing to say about it._

 _Please write soon and tell me that we are still friends, in spite of our children._

 _With great affection,_

 _Claire_

 **January 28, 1921**

 **Mater Misericordiae Hospital**

"He woke for a minute!" Kathleen reported to Sybil. "He's going to be all right!"

Sybil sighed, and stepped out into the hall. She walked the hospital corridor without seeing it, her mind in turmoil. How could she tell her sister-in-law that regaining consciousness momentarily did not mean that Deaglan was going to be "all right". On the contrary, he had been better off before, when his unconscious body was left alone to heal. His fever continued unabated, his breathing labored and painful to watch.

The serum therapy that was their last resort did not seem to be working. Each time he relaxed into sleep Sybil feared would be the last…but how could she tell Kathleen that? To Katie, all signs pointed to recovery. She had to believe, or she would break.

Sybil was exhausted. Dr. Walsh had freed her to assist Deaglan's doctor, but she didn't know how much more she could take. The naked hope in Kathleen's eyes was leaching the energy out of her. She could not look her sister-in-law in the eye for fear of giving away her own worry about the outcome. No one knew of the times she hid herself in the supply closet and gave way to tears—not even Tom. It was a part of the life she had chosen. Nursing meant loss as often as not, but when it was family, the pain was almost unbearable.

She shook herself and turned to move back down the hall toward Deaglan's room, passing Michael and Aislinn in the waiting room. Michael's head rested on the back of the couch, his eyes closed, and Aislinn was asleep curled up in a chair. Sybil moved past them quietly and reentered Deaglan's room. She had to be there…in case the worst happened. Someone had to be there for Kathleen, and for Aislinn.

Kathleen had fallen asleep in the chair next to Deaglan's bed. Days of watching and waiting had taken their toll, and exhaustion had finally had its way with the youngest Branson. Sybil moved over and sat in the chair on the other side of the bed. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength.

When she opened them, Deaglan was looking straight at her…his eyes clear and lucid. Sybil gasped and grabbed his hand, feeling for his pulse. Strong.

Beads of sweat shone on his face, and when she pulled back the sheets covering his body she saw that he was drenched in sweat. The fever had broken! Dare she believe? But it was true—his breathing was less labored, she was sure of it.

"Deaglan," she breathed, hope and relief catching in her throat, "can you hear me?"

"S-Sybil?" he croaked. "Wh' happened?"

Sybil could not answer him for the tears coursing down her face. Now she could say it, and mean it…he was going to be all right. She grinned at him, put her finger to her lips to signal that he was to remain still, and ran from the room.

Within minutes after the doctor had left after pronouncing his patient out of the woods, Aislinn, Michael and Kathleen had gathered around the bed. The atmosphere in the room had become celebratory, everyone congratulating each other on their good fortune. Someone had brought a flask of whiskey, and even Kathleen had a swig. The only one who seemed not to know what was going on was Deaglan. He stared at them all in bewilderment, wondering what all the fuss was about. _He_ certainly didn't feel like celebrating; he felt like shite! What was wrong with them?

Sybil sneaked out and left the hospital to go home. What she needed right now, more than sleep, was Tom. She needed to be held in her husband's arms, to feel his love surround her like a warm blanket. She needed to cuddle her daughter, to share her joy with the people she loved.

Leaving Kathleen alone with Deaglan, Michael and Aislinn removed themselves to the waiting room. They sat across from each other, holding hands and staring into each other's eyes, each afraid to break the spell that had been cast by Deaglan's return from the dead.

"Aislinn—" began Michael, but she cut him off.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice trembling. "I was so stupid. I was just so worried about my brother, and I took it out on you. Can you ever forgive me for the horrible things I said?"

"There's nothing to forgive," he said simply. "You spoke the truth."

"No—"

He cut her off. "You spoke the truth," he repeated, his voice firm. "It was my fault. Oh, not what happened to Deaglan; that was an accident…but the rest of it…you were right. It's me and all the others who are spending our time looking for the next fight. It's never going to end, Aislinn…unless we end it."

She was staring at him, her eyes wide. "What?"

"I'm quitting the Volunteers. I can't end this war by myself, but I can do my part to stop the violence. I'm done." He looked down at their clasped hands, afraid to see what might be showing in her face. Was it enough? Would she forgive him if he quit, or was it too late?

"No." Her voice was so soft he almost didn't hear it. Then his head snapped up as the single word sank in.

"No?" Blue eyes looked into brown, confused.

"No, Michael," she said, her voice rising. You are not going to quit. Ireland needs her volunteers. It was selfish of me to act as if your sacrifice was meaningless. I said those things because I worry for you, and I was petrified for Deaglan. I was wrong to blame you for this war, I was just so afraid! I was brought up to believe in Ireland's right to be free, and I had no right to criticize you for fighting to protect that right! What you are doing is noble, and brave, and I don't think I could be any more proud of you than I am right now. Promise me you won't quit?"

Michael stared at her, his thoughts racing. Women! If he lived to be a hundred, which was unlikely since he apparently wasn't finished with the IRA, he'd never understand how their minds worked. And then he flushed. She was proud of him? She worried about him? Well!

He sat up, suddenly feeling taller. This day had turned out much better than it had started, for sure! A wave of tenderness rushed through him and he leaned forward and kissed her. It felt good, so he did it again.

"Hmmph!" came a voice. A nurse was standing in the doorway, glaring at them. "This is a hospital! We can't have goings on like this in the waiting room, where anyone can walk in, now can we?"

"No," Aislinn said, her lips twitching. "We certainly can not!" And she turned her back on the irritated nurse and leaned forward to kiss Michael again.

* * *

 **A/N:** During the late 1800s and early 1900s, pneumonia was the leading cause of death due to infectious disease and the third leading cause of death overall. It was during this time period, before the discovery of antibiotics, that serious thought was given on how best to attack the pathogens and provide relief to patients. A novel technique called antiserum therapy was begun, and by 1913, antipneumococcal serum therapy was able to reduce mortality in a significant number of cases.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan


	24. Worth Fighting For

_There is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for. - J.R.R. Tolkien_

 **March 3, 1921**

 **The Branson Flat**

"Stop, it, Patrick!"

Patrick removed his hand and tried to look innocent. "Whaat?" he asked, blue eyes wide.

"I have to finish this article, and I can't concentrate with you hanging about!" Edith said, trying to look aggravated and failing. "Go help Sybil in the kitchen or something—Lord knows she needs it."

Patrick walked away, turning at the doorway of Edith's room to shoot a devilish grin her way. She gave him a look of frustration which dissolved into a giggle. The truth was, her brain turned to mush around him, and she seemed unable to focus on anything else if he was nearby. She sighed. She hadn't been able to think of anything much but him when they were in separate _countries_ , so she supposed this was to be expected.

Edith shuddered as she remembered those dark days at Downton, the sulking and moping, mired in a gloom that she couldn't share with a living soul. What an idiot she had been—a self-absorbed, wilted weed of a person! She had made self-pity an art form. How had Patrick ever seen anything in her in the first place? It was a miracle.

A slow smile spread over her face as she thought of him. He had fought for her, had gone to battle against her doubts and refused to let her expunge him from her heart. And he had won. He'd won that day at the dock when he'd looked into her eyes and smiled at her, daring her to deny the attraction both had felt the first time they'd met, at Tom and Sybil's wedding. He had staked his claim in Murphy's Tavern, when he had reached for her hand and sparks had jolted through her body.

And then…the grin widened…he had sealed the deal when he appeared at her door and walked straight into her arms as if he'd always belonged there. And finally there was that fateful day last April, when they'd been discovered wearing nothing but a quilt! Oh God, the look on Sybil's face! Edith put her own burning face in her hands and gave in to the laughter, remembering it as both the most embarrassing and the best day in her life.

"I don't think you're getting anywhere on that article," came a low, husky voice behind her, and warm lips brushed her ear. "Would you like some help?"

"For heaven's sake!" Edith tried for at least three seconds to stand against him, but she was lost. She stood and allowed him to fold her into his arms. For a moment they stood still, content just to hold each other. In that moment, Edith came to an understanding that made everything clear for the first time.

Before she had left, they had stood together like this many times. They had been physically as close as two people could be, and they had been happy. But they had not known then what it meant to share the deepest corners of one's heart with another, to breathe as one, to wake up each day wanting only for the other person to be happy. Edith had not known then what it would mean to be wrenched apart, to face the future without that other part of your soul.

It had taken her panicked flight, her denial and self-doubt, to bring about that epiphany. And in this precious moment, standing here in Patrick's arms again, she realized that it had all been necessary—all that pain and the lonely nights in a gilded cage called Downton, to bring about the miracle that was them.

"Mo chroi?" Patrick whispered. "I think we have time for a bit of a lie-down before dinner. You've been working too hard. That article will be there later."

"Mmm, what article?" she murmured, allowing him to lead her to the bed.

 **March 12, 1921**

 **The Branson Home**

Claire Branson woke with a start. The room was dark. Familiar shadows hung in the corners where the dresser stood. A chair leaned against the wall, her dressing gown slung over it. A sliver of moonlight filtered in behind the curtained window, casting a silver pathway into the room. Nothing was amiss.

So what had awakened her? Claire was a light sleeper. Six children and two grandchildren living in close proximity will do that to you. She had always been the one to hear Fiona's night terrors first, even though the baby slept in the same room as her parents. Daniel's snoring was a part of the fabric of the house now. She had caught Patrick countless times returning from a sojourn with his latest girlfriend, hair mussed and lipstick marks on his sheepish face. Claire had been the one to hear Maire's cries after her attack, though her daughter had tried to stifle them in the pillow. But she heard nothing now. So why was she awake, every nerve ending on alert?

Claire took stock without thinking. Her home was her fortress, and she knew every creak, every sigh, every ache of the old house. It seemed almost empty these days. Daniel and Bernadette were with the children down the hall. Kathleen slept alone in the room that she had once shared with Maire. Patrick was over at Tom and Sybil's—Edith's. She sighed to herself. He hadn't slept at home in weeks. But he'd never been happier, so that was something to be thankful for.

Michael was at the Collins'. _His_ excuse was that he wanted to spend time with his best friend Deaglan, since he had almost lost him to his bizarre accident and subsequent illness, and Deaglan had invited him to stay over. Humph! Her children still labored under the illusion that their mother knew nothing of the world. Claire knew perfectly well that the attraction over there was not Deaglan. She just hoped that Aislinn Collins was the nice girl she thought she was, and that Michael was behaving himself. But they were adults, and _her_ opinion hadn't been solicited.

There. There it was again—a soft padding sound like a footstep, furtive and muffled. And then the third step, the one that Daniel had fixed innumerable times, let out a soft squeak. The next moment, as if knowing that the time for secrecy was past, heavy boots hammered up the remaining stairs and her door was flung open, slamming hard into the wall. The dim light from the window framed the large forms of at least three men wearing stocking masks, and Claire heard other boots thundering down the hallway. Frozen in shock, she heard Connor begin to screech for his mother.

"Don't move!" a voice said, low and rough. "Where is he?"

Claire ignored the command as a hot wave of fury washed through her. This was _her_ house—her home! How dared they burst in without warning and attempt to frighten her? And she _was_ frightened; she could feel her terror building as her anger took over. She knew them. The masks did not disguise who—what—they were. She had heard the unmistakeable accent that marked the intruders as British soldiers, Black and Tans. Even in her fear, she could mark the difference between these coarse, rude voices and the cultured, modulated tones of her son-in-law Evan, whose voice she had once hated so much. The thought gave the scene a sense of odd clarity.

Another soldier appeared in the doorway. "We found one man in the bedroom down the hall, sir. He's got a wife and a couple of screaming kids. It's not him. A young woman in another room. There's no one else here."

"Where is he?" the soldier in the doorway said again, taking a step forward. "I won't ask again."

Claire Branson stood and, ignoring the soldier, crossed to retrieve her dressing gown. Wrapped in its warm folds, she felt stronger, braver. She turned and stretched to her full height of five foot three.

"It might help," she said in the coldest tone she could manage, "if I knew who _he_ is, and why you have broken into my home univited in the middle of the night!" She glared at the men as if they were unruly children, although every muscle in her body threatened to betray her and she was afraid that her legs might not support her much longer.

"This is the home of Michael Branson, isn't it? Where is he?"

Claire stiffened at her son's name. Oh, Michael, she thought. I knew this day would come!

"I have a son named Michael," she said, trying to look confused. "But he doesn't live here anymore. I have no idea where he might be."

"I think you're lying!" said the leader of the group. "We've been watching your house, and we know there's at least one IRA soldier living here!"

"Well, you're obviously not going to take my word for it," Claire said, "so why don't you do whatever it is your lot does when you're misinformed, and then get the hell out of my house!"

A small voice gasped in the hallway. Connor looked up at his mother, who at six months into her pregnancy was a taking up more than a little of the space in the narrow passage as she stood holding her children tight in her arms. Behind her, Daniel stood with his hands in the air as a soldier held a rifle pointed at him. Kathleen swayed against him, her face white and her eyes huge.

Connor's shrill little voice rang out in horror. "Grandmam said a bad word!"

The child's voice broke the tension, the soldiers' eyes darting uncertainly from the holes in their masks. One or two shuffled their feet, but none spoke. They all looked at their leader. The soldier holding his rifle on Daniel lowered his weapon, and Daniel pulled Connor up with one arm, the other going around Bernadette. "You are frightening my children," he said in his calm voice. "My mother-in-law is speaking the truth. There is no one here by that name."

The leader of the Black and Tans seemed to realize that he had lost the battle. "You Irish had best understand that the British Army is here to stay!" he snarled. "We'll root out Collins' IRA scum, mark my words, and they'll all hang!" He turned to his men and strode through them, jostling Bernadette as he passed. The others turned without a word and followed him down the stairs and out the door. There was a collective exhalation of breath as the Bransons stood staring at each other, the shock of the night's activity etched on their faces.

"Let's have some tea," said Claire. "Connor, can you help me get out the biscuits?"

 **March 13, 1921**

 **The Branson Flat**

"I think you should all move in here for a while," Tom insisted as he gripped the back of a chair to keep from throwing it. His mother laughed at him.

"Well, sure and that would be a right fine camping experience, Tom! Where would we all sleep? You have three bedrooms, and very nice they are, too, but there are eleven of us, if you haven't noticed." She shook her head. "Besides, no British soldier is going to chase me out of my own home!" The stubborn set of his mother's head told Tom there was no point in pursuing that line of thought.

"Well, at least Michael should stay here for a while," he tried again. The entire clan was gathered at the flat on this Sunday afternoon, along with Aislinn and Deaglan Collins. Tom had been beside himself since he'd heard about the break-in the night before by the Black and Tans. The bastards had attacked his mother! Would this persecution never end? He felt sick to his stomach as he looked at his family. How could he protect the people he loved in the midst of this insanity?

"Are you serious?" Michael had been uncharactistically quiet, but Tom's statement had him jerking upright from where he was slouched on the couch. "Here? With all the lovebirds? Not gonna happen, mate! I'll sleep at the docks!"

"Shut up, Michael!" Tom snarled. "We're trying to keep you from hanging, in case you hadn't noticed!"

He continued, "It's only going to get worse now, since the Dáil's declared war on the powers in London." Tom ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. "The Tans are making sweeps all over the country now, looking for IRA soldiers and rounding them up to be hanged, or even shooting them in their beds! They're not even bothering with trials. I just sent in a report on six more men who are due to be hanged tomorrow morning at Mountjoy! How long do you think you'd last hanging out at the docks, Michael?"

Michael went silent. He knew Tom had the right of it there. He had had to quit work at the docks a week ago when a fellow Volunteer had warned him that the army was looking for him, and since then he'd been staying away from home as much as possible, afraid of what had just happened. He looked down at his hands. Filled with sudden self-loathing, he couldn't look at his family.

He'd brought them to this-he should have quit back in January when he'd wanted to. Now it was too late…maybe it had already been too late, even then. They had his name, knew where he lived, and probably knew his connection to the Collins family. In fact, he couldn't think of any other reason they'd be targeting him. He wasn't a big fish, just another swimmer in the IRA pond.

Yes. It had to be a way of getting at Michael Collins. But it didn't matter. He'd known when he took the oath almost two years ago that he was giving up a normal life. He'd known that he was risking more than his own neck by joining the IRA. Just as he knew he'd do it all over again, because that was who he was. Maire would have understood, but Maire was thousands of miles away, safe in a country not torn apart by war. At least he could be glad for that.

"I can't come home, Mam," Michael looked up at his mother, tears standing in his eyes. "I can't put you and Bernadette and the little ones at risk. I won't do that!"

Sybil had come back into the sitting room from putting Abby down for a nap. Now she moved to sit down next to her brother-in-law. "We won't let you risk yourself any more than you already are doing, Michael," she said softly, in the steady tone she used with her more recalcitrant patients. "Please let us help by putting you up here. We can move Abby back into our room and you can have Tom's office. There's a couch in there. Please!"

His look was stubborn. "No, Sybil! I know you mean well and I love you for it, but Tom already has a dangerous job, and the RIC know he's my brother. I wouldn't be surprised if they come skulking around here before long, and I won't put you or Abby in danger on my account. It won't work!" Sybil's eyes sought Tom's, her expression sad. Quiet fell as Michael's family took in his words. He was right, and they all knew it.

"He will stay at our house," came a quiet voice, and everyone turned to look at Aislinn. "He's there half the time anyway," she blushed but didn't look away from the staring eyes, "and there isn't anywhere safer than right under the nose of the great Michael Collins, minister of finance for the Dáil Éireann!" Her tone was lightly mocking, but her steady gaze held them all.

"And," Aislinn added, "I might as well tell you, since you're all here together. Michael Branson means quite a lot to me," she lifted her chin, "and I intend to make sure he's safe. You see, he's not the only soldier in this room. I happen to think that there is still some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for. _He's_ worth fighting for." She stared around at the people clustered in the sitting room, as if daring them to argue. No one said a word.

* * *

 **A/N:** As ambushes by the IRA increased in frequency, so did reprisals from the Black and Tans, and frequent sweeps were conducted to root out those with IRA connections. On March 9, 1921, a party of masked policemen broke into the home of the Loughnane family and shot William Loughnane dead in his bed. William, his father and his three brothers were active members of the local IRA company.

 **A/N:** On March 11, 1921, the Dáil Éireann debated, resolved, and declared war officially on the British Administration.

 **A/N:** On March 13, six IRA prisoners were hanged by the British in Mountjoy Prison. And the war marched on.


	25. The Happier Man

_Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed? -_ Hunter S. Thompson

 **March 19, 1921**

 **Letter from Cora Crawley, Countess Of Grantham, to Claire Branson**

 _Dearest Claire,_

 _Of course we are still friends, don't be silly! I know how you feel, as I lost all control over my own children years ago. Perhaps it was the governesses, and the fact that we aristocratic types rarely see our offspring for more than an hour or so a day. I confess that both times I visited you in Ireland, I was a bit envious of the close bond you have with all your children, even the boys. I know that your Maire gave you a few gray hairs…well, maybe more than a few…but she tells you things. You share your worries, and your joys. I certainly never had that with my girls!_

 _Do you think for one moment that we would even know each other if Sybil had felt she could confide in me? Ha! If I had had the slightest inkling of her regard for our chauffeur (I believe you have met him), I would have told Robert and that would have been that. Which just goes to show how shallow and tied to the trappings of society I was. I say was, because I hope I have changed. You as much as told me so, after our visit for Sybil's and-yes, I'll say it, darling Tom's—wedding, and I don't think you realize how much that meant to me._

 _As shocked as Robert—as we both were—about Sybil, I was completely knocked over with Edith! She was always so timid, so unsure of herself. Again, that was my fault. It was just so easy to overlook her, what with Sybil and Mary taking the limelight so often. I should have known she had been unhappy when she wrote to tell me that she was staying in Ireland after a few weeks into her visit with Sybil, but I never dreamed she'd stay for a year! And if I'm honest, which is always so easy with you, my dear friend, I was glad that the moping and whining around the house was gone._

 _When she came back, she refused to talk to me about it. I thought that someone had hurt her over there, and I was so worried, but I couldn't bring myself to tell Robert about my fears. You know how he is. I figured, if he was going to be oblivious to what was right under his nose, then so be it. I love my husband, Claire, but sometimes he just wears me out._

 _Anyway, right before Christmas she finally came to me, and told me everything. How she had fallen in love with your Patrick, and how she had made a terrible mistake and left him but she was going back to see if he still cared at all about her. I was in shock—please do not think ill of me for that—and I begged her to give him up and stay where she was wanted. And do you know what she said to me? She said she had been wanted by Patrick, and she had never felt that way here, at Downton._

 _It hurt, Claire. It tore at my heart, but I came to see that she was right. Remembering my own reception by your family, I knew what she must have found in Ireland. Your children are real, and honest. You have done so well by them._

 _The part of me that Edith inherited, the cowardly part, would not let me tell Robert. He asked where Edith had gone, about two days after she left, and I told him that she was helping Sybil with Abby and she missed her niece too much to stay away. Of course he accepted my story, although he mumbled something about the war in Ireland, and stupidity, and the usual. But I think he was glad to see the moping stop, too._

 _So yes, I can accept Patrick. If he is anything like Tom it shouldn't be too difficult. I'm American, after all, and I don't worry about all that class fol-de-rol as much as some in my position. If you ever doubt my words, remember—you've met my mother. Enough said, I think. Just one thing. Please don't ask me to tell Robert about this. Not yet. Let's see how it all pans out first. That's the coward in me again._

 _So, now that we have both bared our hearts and agreed to support our wild children, I have something special to tell you. Mary is pregnant! Yes, Claire, she's due in early July, and assuming everything goes well I want you all to come to Downton for the christening. After all, it's my turn to host my friend and her family, and it would be a perfect time to ease Robert into the knowledge that he might have another Branson son-in-law. I am giggling as I write this, because I can just see his face. I'll make sure he wears something that goes with purple!_

 _I'll write with details of the birth, and we'll set a date then for the christening and your visit. Remember…I want all of you, or as many as can come._

 _Your loving friend,_

 _Cora_

 **April 16, 1921**

 **London Bridge, Dublin**

James Townsend staggered a bit as he worked his way down the bank of the Dodder River. Maureen McLaughlin laughed as she tried to hold him up, but the evening that had started out at Geary's Tavern was taking its toll. The young British soldier didn't seem to mind her help, in fact, his hands were doing a fine job of landing on her breasts rather frequently, she noted.

His friends weren't helping much, either. The blonde one—Sam, she thought it was, had fallen and rolled halfway down the bank, to jeers and catcalls from the other soldiers and their girls. He got to his feet with difficulty, brushing off his uniform, and lunged for Mary Sullivan, who evaded his groping hands easily.

Maureen shook her head. These British soldiers couldn't hold their liquor like the Irish boys, she thought, but they were gentlemen—mostly—and they had money. Her mother would tan her hide if she knew her daughter was keeping company with a Brit, but what her mother didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Besides, this damn war would end someday, and they'd all go back to England. Might as well have some fun while she could.

Stumbling and laughing, the group of five soldiers and their girlfriends made their way toward the bridge further up the river.

"London Bridge!" said the soldier named Tommy. "A proper name for a bridge, boys, but I bet the Fenians hate it!" They all enjoyed a laugh, not noticing the grimaces on the faces of some of the girls. Maureen and her friends didn't mind having a bit of a lark with the British boys, but they were Irish, after all, and they didn't much like the insulting names that flowed freely when the soldiers talked about the Dublin men.

"Hey, Saoirse," mumbled Ross Baker. He pronounced it _Say-orse,_ and she winced. "What'd'ya say we head over there under the bridge and find some privacy." He winked at his comrades, and they cheered.

"Go for it, Ross!" said James. "You read my mind! What say, Maureen? Want to go—"

"Put your hands up!" shouted an Irish voice. "All of you. Now!" They all raised their hands in the air, including the women, and stood as still as they could manage, facing a group of six IRA soldiers with rifles pointed at their chests.

"Not the women!" the voice continued in disgust, "though you 'ladies' should be ashamed to be hangin' around with this lot! Just you girls go over there and sit on the bank, and shut up!" The girls, heads lowered in embarrassment, did as they were told.

"Now, lads," the voice continued, "if you wanna be comin' over here, pushin' yourselves into our city where you're not wanted, consortin' with our women, you should learn how to hold your liquor like an Irishman." The voice had taken on a sneering tone. "Otherwise, you might find yourselves in a sticky situation—like this one!" His companions laughed.

"But we're feeling generous tonight, and we don't shoot drunks. So, what I want you to do is to put your weapons on the ground, easy like. Good lads. Now take off those pretty jackets, nice and careful now."

The British soldiers glanced at each other, and then removed their uniform jackets and let them fall to the ground on top of their revolvers.

"Now, how about those nice military pants, too, and them boots. Off they go!" At the look of outrage from the Englishmen, the rifles were raised to point at their heads. "Don't you understand _English_? Pants. Off!" The men bent to remove their trousers and boots. Tommy tripped over the hem of his pants and fell, to mocking laughter from a few of the IRA soldiers. No one dared to help him as he clambered back to his feet and stood shivering in the spring breeze with his fellows.

"Whad'ya think, boys?" The voice said to his comrades. "Are they pretty enough?"

"They'd look better without those shirts, Sean," offered another of the IRA soldiers.

"You know, Liam, you're right. You heard the man—off with the shirts, now!" The starched white shirts joined the growing pile of clothing on the ground. The British soldiers now stood in just their knickers, vests, and socks, shaking from more than fear.

"All right, boys. I think you look right fine. What about it, girls? Do you like them now?" The girls stared at the ridiculous picture before them, and one or two snickered.

"Well, ladies _,_ I think it's time you got along home. Don't think these boyos'll be escortin' you. So get!" The girls scrambled up and ran back the way they had come, without a backward look.

The British soldiers were marched shivering up the river to the nearest cross street and sent on their way toward their barracks, at least a mile away. Their weapons were collected and the uniforms thrown into the river, to float downstream until they sank from sight.

It had been an altogether satisfying evening for the local IRA, who repaired to the nearest pub to quench their thirst and regale their neighbors with the tale of the Battle of London Bridge. As he raised his pint in a toast, Michael Branson reflected that he couldn't remember when he'd had a better time as a Volunteer.

 **May 5, 1921**

 **Bray, County Wicklow**

Sybil looked into the mirror. Their room at the Strand Hotel in Bray, only a few miles south of Dublin, was small, but the caretakers had made an effort to give it those old world touches that held a faint reminder of her childhood bedroom in Downton Abbey. If she closed one eye and squinted, she could almost imagine Anna standing behind her, ready to tame her unruly curls into a socially acceptable do for dinner. For just a second, a wave of nostalgia for those times swept through her body, leaving her weak. And then, like the spring wind, it was gone.

Tom had been given a three day holiday by his paper, and had come home with orders for Sybil to pack her bags. It wasn't quite the season, he said, but he was taking her to the seaside, and he had already cleared it with Dr. Walsh. Before Sybil could think of a reason why not, Abby was bundled off to stay with Mam and her cousins, and they were on the train and headed to Bray. Their first vacation! No children, no family, no work. They had never had a honeymoon, and to Sybil this little jaunt had been paradise.

Her thoughts fragmented as a hand brushed against her neck, and she remembered where she was. Tom bent and kissed her lightly on the top of her head, making her shiver. She grabbed for his hand and brought it to her lips, gazing at him in the mirror. He looked so handsome tonight, dressed in his best suit. Her eyes misted as she caught that lopsided grin, and without thinking she stood and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"My lady!" he said, feigning a look of shock. "Remember who you are! It is not appropriate for a high-born lady to throw herself at just any man who comes calling!"

But you're not just any man, are you?" said Sybil, pushing him backwards until he ran into the bed and was forced to sit down. She stood before him, her eyes shining. "You are the love of my life and the father of my child!"

"Well, I suppose I _am_ rather special, now that you mention it," Tom said, his blue eyes dancing as they looked into her own. "I mean, you could have had your pick of that lot over there in England, but you knew quality when you found it, and of course you were smart enough to know it had to be an Irishman!"

Sybil pushed him back onto the bed and pinned his arms. "You're quite full of yourself, sir!" she told him. "If you don't mind your manners, I might not let you have your way with me!"

"Oh, really?" He pulled her down and rolled her over onto her back, bracing himself over her. "I have it on very good authority that you posh types melt when a real man comes around. Shall we find out if I'm right?"

A few minutes later Tom's suit and Sybil's dress lay in a heap on the floor, and the activity in the bed had become quite heated. Many more minutes later Sybil sighed.

"Tom, we've been here for two nights and we haven't made it to the dining room yet! Is there something wrong with us that this keeps happening?"

"Oh, yes, m'lady," he murmured into her hair. "There's something very wrong with us. I say we explore the problem, and try again tomorrow."

The next morning they awoke late, dressed hurriedly and found their way to the dining room for breakfast. Tom stirred his tea and waved the spoon at Sybil.

"It's our last day, darling. What do you want to do?"

"I want to walk along the beach and then have a picnic."

"That's what we've done for the last two days," Tom said, laughing. "Don't you want to try something new? Take a carriage ride? Go to the shops?"

Sybil frowned and wrinkled her nose. "There are people in the shops, and I've had lots of carriage rides. In fact, back home in England, we had a lovely motor car—yes, a Renault!" She gave him an earnest look, and went on. "We had a darling driver, too—an Irishman if I recall, and he took us around wherever we wanted to go! It was lovely while it lasted."

"You don't say! And why didn't it last, if I may ask?"

"Oh, he was a bit too cheeky. He insisted on trying to talk to me whenever we were alone. Politics, of all things!" She looked at him, keeping her face straight. "Now why would anyone think that politics was a fit subject for a lady?"

"Why, indeed. And what happened to this cheeky driver?"

"Oh, we had to get rid of him. He went back to Ireland—and took the daughter of the house with him. Come to find out, she _did_ like politics!" They had told this story to each other over and over, and still found it hilarious. Laughing, they got up from the table and found their way to the beach. This early in the season it was nearly deserted, which was just the way they liked it, and after a while they spread a blanket and watched the water coming closer and closer as the tide rolled in, silver waves oblivious to the couple wrapped in each other's arms.

As the sun began to lower behind them, Sybil dozed with her head in Tom's lap while he stared out at the Irish Sea, thinking about the words they had exchanged earlier in the restaurant. Cheeky. He supposed it might have seemed that way, but in reality he had been scared out of his boots. Frightened of losing his place, of losing her if his deepest desires had become known. And then when he had won, when she had come to love him as he loved her, he had been afraid of the future. Of being unable to provide for her, of the time that she would come to regret her decision.

He looked at her now, as his fingers played with a strand of her soft hair. He'd never told her, but there had been a time in those days when he had nearly given up and gone back to Ireland. He was petrified of loving someone like her, of taking that step, because he knew there would be no going back. It would be safer to just go home and live the life that had been laid out for him.

He wondered what that life would have been worth had he cut and run. Who was happier, after all—the man who braved the storm and took the chance on a life that meant something, or the one who took the easy path, stayed out of harm's way and merely existed? Looking into the slumbering face of the one who had made the decision for him, he knew the answer. It had never really been a contest.

* * *

 **A/N:** April, 1921 was a particularly violent period in the War of Independence, the Dublin IRA alone carrying out sixty-seven attacks on British forces during the course of the month. Most were bloody and deadly, but one occasion is known more for humor than sadness—at least for the Irish republicans. A group of British soldiers who were enjoying the company of their girlfriends along the banks of the Dodder River were discovered and held up by a local IRA company, and rather than being shot, were ordered to return to their barracks minus all clothing except trousers and shirts. A fate perhaps worse than death for young men trying to impress their girls!

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Dodder - dah + der

Maire - my + ra

Saoirse - seer + sha


	26. When a Light Goes Out

_It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone._ \- John Steinbeck

 **May 21, 1921**

 **Johnson Mooney and O'Brien Bakery**

Kathleen Branson wiped the back of her hand over her damp forehead, pushing the errant wisps of hair off her face. Did everyone in Dublin need pastries on the same day? she thought, and had all the other bakeries in the city closed for some reason?

Of course, it was grand for Mooney and O'Brien, and she was lucky to have work when so many were scraping by these days, but really! It wasn't like she owned the place, after all. And it wouldn't be so bad if Bernadette were there to help.

Kathleen was worried about her sister. She hadn't been this sick, this drawn, with either Connor or Fiona. She knew that every baby was different, but there was just something about this one that had her wishing that the pregnancy would be over and the baby safely here, even though Bernadette's due date wasn't until mid-July.

Daniel felt the same way, and he had finally put his foot down and ordered his wife to stop working and stay at home. "You won't be working for quite a while anyway, darling, once the baby's born. A few weeks more isn't going to matter. And we don't need the money, not with the way the furniture store's taken off. Your baby brother's a genius!" So Bernadette now spent her time at home, resting.

Kathleen was pulled out of her thoughts, back to the bakery and the line of eager customers. The owner had hired a girl to help fill in the gap left by Bern's departure, but training her was just more work for Kathleen, who also had to do the books now. Her days started at dawn and often went into the afternoon. She hardly saw Deaglan at all these days, and on weekends all she wanted to do was sleep. But this too shall pass, she thought. The girl would learn, Kathleen's schedule would ease, and she'd soon be an aunt again. She smiled.

"Well, I wish my girl would smile at me like that!" said the man at the counter.

"Oh," Kathleen, said, flustered. "No, I was just…"

"You mean that gorgeous smile isn't for me?" the man asked. "I ask you," he said, turning to the people in line behind him. "Don't I deserve a smile from a beautiful girl along with my pastry?" People laughed at his humor. "I mean, somewhere out there is a lad who gets that smile all the time. It's jealous, I am!"

"Not so far out there," came a familiar voice. "And I'll thank you to take your eyes off my fiancée!" Deaglan stepped out from behind a large woman and grinned at Kathleen.

The man put his hands up in mock surrender and stepped back. "Lucky cuss!" he said, shaking his head.

But Kathleen was staring at Deaglan. "Fiancée?" she asked. "When did that happen?"

"Oh, did I forget a step?" Deaglan laughed, turning to face the crowd, who were all listening intently now, having forgotten about their pastries. "I'm sorry, I'd better take care of that right away. I've given up on ever getting this lass alone in a romantic place, so I'll just have to do it here, and you lot are all invited to be my witnesses—" he winked at them, "and carry me out, in case she says no." And with that, he went down on one knee in front of the counter, to the delight of everyone in the place.

"Kathleen Nora Branson, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Kathleen was beet red, She continued to stare at Deaglan as tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her face. His broad smile faltered.

"Katy?" he said, sounding nervous.

"Yes, you fool!" she choked out. "Of course I'll marry you. I thought I'd be an ancient old crone before you got around to asking!"

Everyone in Mooney's began to shout and cheer. Deaglan stood up and reached across the counter to lift Kathleen over and into his arms. He crushed her to him, kissing her as if his life depended on it, and she melted into his embrace.

When he looked up again, after a rather long time, Deaglan grinned at the crowd of customers. "The bakery's closed," he announced. "Come back tomorrow for a free pastry, on me!" And he watched as the customers all filed out the door, smiling and chattering about the proposal they had just been lucky enough to watch. In a city at war, light moments were often hard to find, and this one had been a gem.

 **May 28, 1921**

 **Martha Levenson's Home, New York City**

"So, how is the apartment hunting going, dear?" Martha asked Maire, as they shared tea in the drawing room.

"Oh, fine," Maire replied, her tone listless. She avoided eye contact with Martha as she sipped her tea.

"That's nice," said Martha. "But you know you don't have to move out. I enjoy having young people around and I'm not looking forward to the silence of these old halls."

"I know," said Maire. "And we're more than grateful for your kindness, for everything you've done for us. But it's time we learned to make it on our own, don't you think?" She still looked miserable, and Martha tilted her head and gave her a sharp-eyed look.

"Well, I might have done it for Sybil, initially, but you and Evan have become very dear to me. You're family, you know…why, what's the matter?"

Maire had burst into tears. She put her face in her hands and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. After a startled look, Martha waited, settling back into the chair and sipping her tea as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Finally Maire looked up, sniffling.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped, "what you must think of me!"

"It was when I said "family", wasn't it?" Martha asked her in a calm tone.

"Y-yes," sputtered Maire, "but it isn't as if I don't feel like your family, or that I don't feel the same way about you—I do, but—"

"But you miss your own family, don't you? Well, what kind of person would you be if you didn't?"

"I miss my mother!" It came out in a rush. "It was wonderful of you to send us over to Ireland for Christmas, and I'll never be able to repay your kindness, but seeing them all made it worse, somehow. Leaving them again was almost the hardest thing I've ever done!"

"Almost?" said Martha, curious. "And what, pray tell, could be harder than that?"

Maire stopped sniffling and looked at her benefactor. A small smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. "Well, the hardest thing was admitting I was in love with an Englishman," she said. "But leaving the first time wasn't so difficult. After all, we were running away from the law, and I'd just found Evan again, and then you were here to take us under your wing. And after that we were so busy getting settled, and finding jobs, and getting Evan into medical school, that none of it had time to sink in for a while. But when we went back, when I saw my m-mother, and my b-brothers and ss-sisters, it just all came at me at once." She was crying again.

Maire made a great effort and pulled herself together. "It wasn't so hard for Evan, though he understands how I feel because my family is his now too. His parents are dead, and his brother was killed in the Great War so he has no one in England. But it's not the same. He's used to being alone. He's better at it than I am because it's all he's had for so long. And I'm glad I left with him—I love Evan more than anything, and I'd do it all again in a minute, but—" and she broke down again, "I m-miss my m-mother!"

Again Martha waited her out. When Maire had quieted again, she put her teacup down on the tray and looked squarely at the Irish girl who had become like a daughter to her.

"Well, dear, then it appears I have some good news for you. My granddaughter Mary is expecting, and the baby is due sometime in July. Assuming all goes well…and when you meet Lady Mary," she said this in a lofty British accent with her nose in the air, "you'll understand why nothing will be permitted to go wrong—she simply won't have it…" she trailed off and sat looking at Maire with a smile that would make the Cheshire Cat jealous.

Maire was now studying her with a perplexed look on her face. What did all this have to do with anything?

"So," Martha continued in her normal voice, "sometime in August there will be a christening, and I am going to drag myself over to take part in it. I haven't been back to Europe since Sybil's wedding, and wasn't that a fine fiasco!" She snorted. "Let's just hope we don't have a hullaballoo like _that_ one this time!"

"W-we?" Maire said, sitting up straight.

"Why yes, we. You and Evan are coming with me. I'm too old to do that horrible journey by myself anymore, and I believe you said something about missing your mother?"

"Yes, but she's in Ireland, not England," said Maire, confused.

"You young people think you know everything! She'll be in England for the christening. Cora has written and invited us, and what's more—she's invited your mother and your whole family as well! Oh, Lord," she said, her eyes crinkling in evil mirth, "I simply cannot wait to see my son-in-law's face when we all pull up to Downton Abbey!"

 **June 19, 1921**

 **The Branson Flat**

It had been a quiet Sunday for Tom and Sybil—as quiet as life with a ten month old could be. Abby was crawling all over the flat, and taking her first steps around the furniture, chirping with joy at her success. It wouldn't be long before she was walking on her own. Sybil was proud of her daughter, and wanted her to walk, and talk, and do all those other things toddlers do. Really, she did. But she knew that when that happened, her baby would be gone forever, and she wasn't sure she was ready for that.

Tom came in with the baby draped over his shoulder, upside down. Both were laughing, and Sybil couldn't help but join in. Well, she was being maudlin anyway, feeling sad about ridiculous things, when she should be enjoying this moment, right now, with the two people she loved most on this earth. She got up and went to them, kissing her daughter's pudgy belly until she squealed, moving upwards with her lips until they met her husband's. With Abby squished happily between them, they stood this way until they heard a knock on the door.

"Daniel?" said Tom, as he opened the door to the flat. "What brings you over on a Sunday? Hiding from the kids?"

"Um, it's really Sybil I need to see," said Daniel in a low voice. He came into the sitting room, twisting his hat in his big workman's hands. His face was pale and drawn, and the circles under his eyes were more pronounced than usual. Tom and Sybil knew that Daniel had been under a lot of strain recently, since Bernadette hadn't been feeling well, and he'd been taking time off to take charge of his boisterous children. Connor and Fiona were as delightful as a five and two-and-a-half year old could be, which is to say they were adorable heathens who gave all the adults in their lives a run for their money. It was plain to see that their father had run out of steam. But there was more to this, Sybil could tell.

"What's wrong, Daniel?" she said, touching his arm in concern. The look on his face alarmed her, as she ushered him to the couch and made him sit down.

"It's Bern," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "There's something wrong, I know it…but she won't talk to me. She just says she's tired, and everything is fine. I know her, Sybil, and I don't think she's being honest. I don't know how to help her. Will you come?"

"Of course!" said Sybil. "But…why me? Where's Mam?"

"Oh, she's tried too. I may be imagining things, but I think Bern's worried about something, and I think it's…I think it's something to do with the baby. I'd just feel better if you talked to her, you being a nurse and all. She's been so sick lately. Just come and tell her it's normal, that everything will be all right. Please!"

So Sybil left Abby with Tom. Neither she nor Daniel spoke on the short trip to the Bransons', each wrapped in separate thoughts. When they arrived at the house, Daniel led the way into the parlor, where Bernadette was reclining on the couch, reading a book. No one else seemed to be at home, and the quiet was unusual and somewhat chilling.

"Bern, look who stopped in to see you!" Daniel said, doing his best to sound surprised. "Well, I'll leave you ladies to talk about…whatever it is women talk about." And he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

"How's Abby?" Bernadette asked Sybil. "Is she walking yet?"

"Not yet, but any day now. She's pulling herself up on everything, and crawling from one end of the flat to the other. I can't take my eyes off her for a minute! Why didn't you warn me?" She rolled her eyes.

"Funny, you never asked," said Bernadette, smiling. But Sybil noticed that the smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and she seemed distracted.

"Daniel says the kids are ready for boarding school," Sybil joked, and watched her sister-in-law carefully. "Three's going to be quite a challenge."

Bernadette looked up at her, and Sybil saw that her eyes were wet. "Bern, what's wrong?" she asked, taking her sister-in-law's hand. "Tell me."

"I can't feel it," Bernadette whispered. "I haven't felt the baby move for almost a week. That never happened with the other two. Is that normal?"

Sybil's heart thudded and dropped. "W-well, it's probably fine, but we aren't going to take any chances. Worrying isn't good for you, so tomorrow morning we're going to the Mater. Dr. Walsh will check you over, and I'm sure he'll tell you everything is all right.

Everything was not all right. Dr. Walsh examined Bernadette, and then called in a colleague whose specialty was maternity. They closed the door of the examining room and spent a long time with Bernadette, while Sybil waited outside.

Dr. Walsh opened the door finally and called for her to come in. "There's no heartbeat, Sybil. The baby has died," he said in a low voice. "We're going to induce labor, but right now she needs you. The nurse is calling her husband."

Sybil sat holding Bernadette while she sobbed out her anguish like a small child.

And later that evening she was delivered of a tiny, perfectly formed little boy.

"He was exquisite," Sybil told Tom as they lay together that night in their huge bed. "He had a rosebud mouth, and long eyelashes…he was beautiful. They named him Aedan." She began to cry, softly, and Tom drew her close.

"She's so strong, Tom! I don't think I could hold myself together like that. To lose a child, before he's even seen the world or looked at the mother who loved him for all these months already. Bern told me that he was her little light, and she would think of him like that always. She said she wishes she had had the chance to meet him, because it's so much darker now without his light than it would have been if he had never shone at all. Oh, Tom…why do these things have to happen?"

Sybil buried her head in her husband's shoulder and cried for Bernadette, and for all the mothers who had lost children throughout time. And then together they went to stand at Abby's cot and watch their own precious child as she slept, healthy and whole. Their own little light, shining bright in the darkness.

* * *

 **A/N:** Crossing the Atlantic Ocean in 1921 was not for the faint of heart. By the early 20th century, the liner Mauretania, with a capacity of 2,300 passengers, was able to cross the Atlantic in 4.5 days, a record which was held for 30 years until the Queen Mary reduced the crossing time by half a day to 4. A crossing was also extremely expensive; first class passengers like Martha Levenson would have paid in the neighborhood of $385 for the trip, which is equivalent to about $4,850.00 for the most luxurious cabins on the Queen Mary today. And that was for one passenger, not three!

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aedan - aid + an

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra


	27. Enough of Your Past

Only two chapters left after this one, and I have to admit I'm sorry it's ending. But maybe the Bransons will be back for some one-shots…I hope so.

 _Give us the future… We've had enough of your past. Give us back our country… to live in, to grow in, to love._ \- Michael Collins

 **July 1, 1921**

 **Daniel and Patrick's Workshop**

"I'm not going!" Patrick stood in the workroom facing Edith, hands on his hips. "I have orders coming out of my arse, and I don't know when I'm going to find the time to work on them as it is. You go."

Edith smirked at him. "You _always_ have orders coming out of your…well, you have a lot of orders, and you always find the time. Besides, now that you have Michael working for you, you can afford to take a little time off."

"Nope, no time." With a stubborn shake of his head, Patrick turned back to his design.

"You're afraid." Now she was laughing out loud at him. "You don't want to go to the christening because you're afraid of my father!"

"I'm afraid of his guns," Patrick admitted, turning around to face her again. "Those aristocrats spend a lot of time shooting at birds. I don't want him to get any practice in on me!"

"Well," Edith moved to stand before him, grinning into his blue eyes. "You _are_ a bird of exceptional plumage, darling. But my father's not really the best shot. There's a very good chance he'd miss…at least the first time."

"Ha, very funny," Patrick said. "I feel much better. And I'm still not going. Tom told me how wonderfully he was treated when he and Sybil announced their intentions, and I'm pretty sure that _two_ Bransons on the family tree would be just Lord Grantham's cup of tea! I'm not Tom—I'm not a fighter, I'm a lover."

"So, who's the coward now?" she asked. "If I could drag myself over here and prostrate myself at your feet to beg forgiveness, _and_ put up with your mother's less than loving reception, the least you can do is go with me to Downton for a simple christening party. We don't have to make any announcements or anything while we're there." She didn't tell him that she hadn't even told her father why she was returning to Ireland. True to her cowardly nature, she'd left that up to her mother. And knowing Mama, _she_ probably hadn't told him yet either.

"And there's another thing," she said, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders. "While you're working so hard on all these very lovely designs, just remember that when you do go home you'll be awfully lonely. I mean, you can't work through the night, can you? The long, cold night?"

"It's not cold. It's summer, and you don't play fair," he complained, grabbing her hands and then putting his own arms around her waist. He ran his lips over her neck, fisted his hand in her hair, and kissed her soundly. Edith wondered, as the familiar chills ran up her spine, how it was always like the first time with him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and for a moment there was a very different sound in the workroom.

"Oh, for God's sake!" said Michael, coming in from the shop. He backed out again, muttering "don't you two ever stop? People are trying to work around here!"

Patrick laughed into Edith's hair. "Let's go home. I can finish this stuff later."

"Oh, really? What about all those orders?"

"He made an airy gesture at the designs on the table. "Plenty of time to finish them while you're over there in England…because I'm _still_ not going!"

Edith grinned as she followed him out the door. _We'll just see about that!_ she thought.

 **July 6, 1921**

 **The Branson Home**

Daniel Ryan stood in the doorway watching his wife. A welling of love for this brave, dauntless woman rose up and left him weak. She had been through the worst experience a woman can suffer, and yet here she was, chasing little Abby as she crawled after her two older cousins, laughing and tickling her niece when she caught her. He knew that she cried herself to sleep some nights, as he knew that there was nothing he could do to ease her pain, beyond being there. He hoped it was enough.

Bernadette hadn't gone back to the bakery. She filled her days with children now, acting as nanny to Sybil's Abby as well as chasing her own small whirlwinds around. She seemed happy enough, but Daniel thought that her attention to the children was almost frenzied, as if she didn't want to miss a single minute of their lives. The children were her solace and her healing, but also her obsession.

With his wife staying at home and no need for Mam to be the children's nanny, Daniel thought that it was time to move out and find a place of their own. He was a builder, one of the better ones if he believed the praise and the sales, and his dream had always been to build a home for his wife and family. He'd had the plans for a long time, stored in the bottom drawer of his desk at the shop, and he thought it was time. It would give Bern something else to occupy her mind.

They could certainly afford it. The business was doing well…more than well, if he counted in his share of Patrick's furniture business. Daniel shook his head in wonder, thinking about how far his young brother-in-law had come in just two years. He was a genius with wood and tools. It was almost as if his hand held a wand when he touched it, creating fantastic swirled motifs, gracefully arched legs and cabrioles.

And the quality! Everything that came out of the shop was built with love and meant to last a lifetime. The prices were high and going higher, as the outside world discovered this treasure on the tiny island of Ireland. There were orders from London, Melbourne, New York, and the prices had soared because Patrick designed and supervised everything himself. The buyer had to wait, and pay for the privilege, and they were happy to do so. Recently he had hired his brother to help, and Michael was proving to have some of the gift himself, although not the genius that Patrick had. Deaglan had made overtures as well, and Patrick was considering putting him in charge of the books.

Daniel's eyes went back to his wife, now half-hidden under a pile of children. Soon, but not now. In another month or so he'd mention his idea to her, give her the chance to mull it over. Right now she needed her mother, and the chaos of the Branson home helped to cover her grief. And then it came to him. When the rest of the family went to England for the christening, he would take his family to the seaside, just the four of them, and they'd talk about it then. There was no way he was putting her through a celebration for the christening of a baby. She just wasn't ready for that…and neither was he.

 **July 9, 1921**

 **Tipperary, Ireland**

Paddy O'Connor stopped and listened to the night sounds, his heart beating a tattoo in his chest as he tried to blend in with the trees next to the uneven country road. For a boy born and raised on the streets of Dublin, this lack of all man-made noise was nerve-wracking. Chirps and loud hoots that must be birds of some kind, buzzing and chittering that was probably insects. Something large flashed by, invisible wings beating the air into a frenzy, and a shrill squeak was cut off. Nothing else. No human noises whatsoever. And yet as he stood wondering where to go next, the hums and squeaks and rustlings seemed to grow and spread and fill the night, leaving the young boy sweating and wishing for home.

This was a different kind of danger than he was used to. At twelve years old, Paddy had spent a third of his life in a city at war. He was used to the tanks of the British army, the motorcars filled with Black and Tans and RIC, the checkpoints. And the constant gunfire. Three of his schoolmates had lost fathers or brothers to the fighting, and all of them had sworn that they would join the IRA as soon as they were old enough. For now, they volunteered as messengers, carrying information from the chief officers of the Dáil to IRA commanders in other parts of the city. Paddy had distinguished himself as a lad who followed orders, one who would see the job through.

He supposed it was why they had sent him all the way out here to Donohill in County Tipperary, with a message for the commander of the second southern division of the IRA. He was proud to be chosen, of course—who wouldn't be? But Paddy wished his message was going to anyone other than Ernie O'Malley. O'Malley had the reputation of being ruthless and cruel. The British forces seldom ventured into his territory, and when they did they took care never to leave the roads. Just a few weeks ago three British officers had had the misfortune to be captured by O'Malley, and had been summarily executed.

Paddy was looking for Mrs. Quirke's, a safe house and the known headquarters for the IRA in Tipperary. Keeping to the sides of the road, he made his way onward, following the directions he had been given, until the lone farmhouse reared up against the horizon, and he could leave the darkness of the country behind.

"He's not here, lad, you can give me the message," a captain insisted when Paddy had stated his business. "Might not be back for a while."

But Paddy was steadfast in his refusal to hand over his message to anyone else but the commander. He sat with his cap in his hands, fingering the brim with nervous fingers, and refrained from saying another word.

A truck was heard in the yard, and the commander came into the kitchen where Paddy waited. Not a big man, O'Malley took off his hat and threw himself into a chair, accepting the cup of tea that Mrs. Quirke pressed into his hands. Studying him, Paddy was surprised to see that he did not look brutal or mean. He looked tired, and there was a melancholy expression about his lined face, the face of a man much older than his twenty four years. He turned and noticed Paddy staring at him.

"What is it, lad?" he asked.

"I have a message for you, sir…from Dublin."

O'Malley looked interested. "Dublin, is it? And what would the powers that be in Dublin be wanting with me?" He took the message, broke the seal, and began to read.

O'Malley's head snapped up, his eyes wide. The gaze he fixed on Paddy O'Connor held none of the weariness that had been there moments before.

"Can this be?" he said softly. His voice held a note of bewilderment and suppressed excitement that his subordinates had never heard before. Paddy stared, wondering what it was in his message that could cause such a reaction.

 **July 11, 1921**

 **The Branson Flat and Murphy's Pub**

Tom was late. Sybil sat on the couch in the sitting room, Abby in her lap, and worried. You'd think that after all this time she would have it under control…this constant squeezing in the pit of her stomach every time he went out the door to work, to the job that had nearly killed him once and could still do so at any moment. When she was at work she lived in fear that history might repeat itself, that the next broken patient through that emergency room door would be her husband, that this time it would be too late. She knew it was like this for women all over Dublin. Would they ever fully recover from what this war had done to them?

The door crashed open and Sybil looked up in alarm as Tom flew into the flat, a look of intense excitement on his face. He crossed to his wife, who had just put Abby down on a blanket to play with her toys, and swept her up in his arms, whirling her around until she was dizzy.

"Tom! What's happened? I've never seen you like this!"

"They've done it! They've signed the truce! It's over, Sybil! They've given us back our country! It went into effect at noon today, I've been working to get a special issue out. Come on, we're going to Murphy's. Abby too, of course—she's an Irishwoman, she should be celebrating with the rest of the city!"

A short time later the Bransons were squeezed into a table at Murphy's with Patrick, Edith, Deaglan, and Kathleen. The pub was overflowing, the noise deafening. Beer was flowing, a couple was dancing in the corner, and toasts were being made all over the bar as Colum and his barmaids tried their best to be everywhere at once. Sybil heard more than one excited conversation in Irish, as the locals reclaimed the language that had been stolen from them over the years since the Easter Rising. It sounded beautiful to her ears.

Michael and Aislinn forced their way through the crowded doorway and over to the table, Michael's eyes shining. Tom stood up and embraced his brother, and the two stood for a moment clutching each other as the emotions of this day swirled through them. Tears ran down Michael's face, unheeded.

"I can hardly believe it!" he whispered. "I never thought it would happen. I wanted it so badly, but I never thought the British would give in! In the streets on the way over here, I wondered what was so different, and then I got it—no guns! Not a single sound of firing. It's real, Tom! We've done it!" He hugged his brother once more, and then turned to Aislinn.

"Marry me, Aislinn! As soon as the banns are read. I want to be the first man to be married in the new Free State of Ireland!"

She laughed and kissed him. "Is that your idea of a proposal, Michael Branson? If it is, it's the worst, the craziest…the most wonderful thing I've ever heard! And yes, I'll marry you. I was only waiting for you to put your gun down, and then I was going to ask _you_!

* * *

 **A/N:** The story of Paddy O'Malley and his message is true. Following talks between Éamon de Valera and Britain's Lord Middleton, a truce was formally signed between the Dáil cabinet and and the British commander in Ireland. Under its terms, British forces were to immediately cease "pursuit of Irish officers and men, while the IRA were to cease "attacks on Crown Forces and civilians. Messengers were sent from Dublin to the IRA commanders in key areas of Ireland.

 **A/N:** The truce marked the end of the war, turning the work over to the politicians. On December 6, 1921, the Anglo-Irish Treaty was signed in London, partitioning Northern Ireland and what would be called the Irish Free State. It was not enough for IRA hard-line nationalists, who refused to accept the treaty, and June 1922 began another year of vicious fighting, this time Irish against Irish. One of the saddest events in the Irish Civil War took place when Michael Collins, who had fought so hard for his country's freedom, was ambushed and killed by men who had once fought alongside him. But that is a story for another day.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Dáil - doyl

Deaglan - deck + lan

Éamon - aim + an


	28. The Life You Want

One more chapter after this one, and I feel like crying! I'm going to miss these people so much. Maybe they'll be back for a one-shot here or there, who knows?

 _You don't need someone's permission to live the life you want. Be brave to live from your heart._ \- Roy T. Bennett

 **August 17, 1921**

 **Downton Abbey**

"Do you think you might remove the scowl from your face, darling?" Cora said, without looking at her husband. "They'll see you." Mary and Matthew, lined up next to the Earl and Countess of Grantham, glanced sideways to see the object of her comment.

Lord Grantham rearranged his face with care. He had thought he looked fine; at least as well as could be expected when the entire island of Ireland was coming to stay at his home. But inside he was fuming. This was all Cora's fault! She'd insisted on inviting all of Sybil's newfound relatives for Mary's baby's christening. Had she had any notion how many of them there were? An uncharitable vision of rabbits invaded his mind, and he did his best to force it out.

The first car rolled up the drive. There were two others following right behind, each filled with people. Blimey, how many of them _were_ there?

The car pulled up in front of the massive front doors, and out climbed his mother-in-law. He could almost believe that Martha had set this whole thing up, except that he knew it was Cora who had invited them all. But look at that smug face! If Martha hadn't had a hand in this, she was certainly enjoying it! He was determined not to give her the satisfaction of seeing his discomfiture.

Martha glided over to kiss Cora, and then gave him a peck on the cheek. Behind her was that wild sister of Tom's, the one who had dressed him down in front of everyone during the wedding visit. All right, she had apologised, and she seemed somewhat tame right now, but he'd be keeping an eye on her. She was followed by a nice looking young man, someone he'd never seen before. Cora had said the girl—what was her name?—Mary? Myra?—was married and living with Martha now. Well, _that_ was a role model, wasn't it? His mother-in-law wasn't likely to improve the girl's disposition!

"Robert, do you remember Tom's sister, Maire?" Martha purred. At his stiff nod, she continued, "and this is her husband, Evan. You'll like him, he's your kind." The young man shook Robert's hand.

"Evan Langdon. Very nice to meet you, your Lordship," he said politely. "Thank you for having us. Your home is lovely."

Lord Grantham started. An Englishman! What the hell was that Irish firebrand doing with an Englishman…and one with some manners, to boot! Would wonders never cease!

Cars continued to pull up, spilling out people he vaguely remembered and people he'd never met. A real menagerie of Irish working class society, he thought. Cora glared at him as if reading his mind.

Tom and Sybil presented themselves, and Robert felt some of his irritation fall away in a rush of affection for the young man he'd once considered the enemy. He had certainly seen the light there on his visit to Ireland for the wedding! He kissed his youngest daughter and shook his son-in-law's hand.

"Hello, Tom," he said, with real warmth. "And who's this lovely lady?" he cooed, as Sybil presented Miss Abigeál Branson. Abby grinned at him and held out her arms. Robert took the baby and grinned. Another spitfire, he thought. With those two for parents, what could you expect? He wanted to leave this infernal reception line and go inside to play with his grandchild. His first grandchild! She was simply adorable.

He was stuck, though, as more people poured out of the motors. He held tight to Abby as if she were a lifeline, as Sybil moved on with Tom, grinning. Cora was hugging Claire Branson, whispering something in her ear as if they were old schoolmates catching up on gossip.

Another of Tom's brothers, with an attractive young woman he had never met. A sister, blonde and petite, but obviously a Branson, accompanied by a dark-haired young man who couldn't take his eyes off her for more than a minute.

And there was Edith, looking happier than he'd ever seen her. Robert's face soured, despite his best intentions. She'd left, twice, remained in Ireland for a completely inappropriate amount of time, and Cora told him that this time she was staying there, making that war-ravaged country her home. What the hell was wrong with her! He had never understood his middle daughter.

Edith came up and kissed him on the cheek, and then turned to the young man beside her. Another Branson, of course, but he couldn't remember having met this one before.

"Papa, this is Patrick," she said. The young man stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Nice to see you again, sir," he said. Good lord, thought Robert, the lad looked scared to death! Was he that frightening? And then he realised what the boy had said. Again?

Patrick's face lightened as he recognized the confusion on Lord Grantham's face. "We met, at the wedding," he said. "I was the gargoyle with all the cuts and bruises."

"Ahh," said Robert in relief. "I remember. Well, you've certainly healed up nicely. Glad you could come." How could he forget that night? This was the brother that had been beaten up and nearly killed, the same night that the Myra girl had torn into him like a harridan. What a nightmare that had been! He'd almost turned around and come home, right then!

He looked at the crowd in front of him. Eight, not counting his daughters, all gawking in astonishment at the house, speechless with wonder. Robert interrupted their gaping to announce, "Tea is served in the drawing room, ladies and gentlemen. And now, you'll have to excuse me for a few minutes. I am going to be busy getting acquainted with my granddaughter, Miss Abigail!

 **August 18, 1921**

 **Downton Abbey**

The dining room was huge, cavernous…and quiet. The Branson clan was pushing food around on their plates, plainly intimidated by the formality and all the utensils required to eat dinner in an English manor house. Conversation was non-existent except for Cora and Claire Branson, who acted like sisters reconnecting after a long absence.

"I was sorry to hear what happened to Bernadette," Cora was saying. "I can't imagine how it must be to lose a child."

"She's strong," Claire answered. "The family is visiting the western coast right now. I think it's what she needs."

"So," Robert said to Tom. "Ireland has won her independence. Does that mean that it'll be safer to travel now? Because I think I might have to come over once in a while to visit my granddaughter, just to make sure you two are taking good care of her."

"Well," Tom said. "We have a truce, but now the politicians are in charge of forging a real, lasting treaty. And you know what that's like! But no matter, you know you're welcome anytime."

"And what are you going to do, now that the war is ending?" Robert turned to Michael, on his left side.

Michael looked startled to be the focus of Lord Grantham's attention. "Um, well, I'm still in the army, but I work for my brother now." He indicated Patrick, who was across the table in deep conversation with Martha.

"Oh? And what is it that he does?" Robert asked, politely.

"He designs and makes the finest furniture in Ireland," Michael said, his voice proud. "And everywhere else, most like."

Mary, seated next to Evan, had been half listening to this dialogue. Suddenly she spoke up, staring at Patrick in astonishment. "Furniture? _Branson_ Furniture? Are you saying _you're_ Branson Furniture?" Her face was alive with incredulity.

Patrick blushed. "Yes, that's me."

"Good heavens!" she said. "Matthew, we have several Branson pieces. Remember, I joked with you that maybe the artist was related to Tom? Well, apparently he is! Oh, my goodness!" She stared at Patrick. "I don't believe it. Everyone wants your furniture! Our friends are quite jealous that I have three pieces! They're impossible to get!" She surveyed those around the table with an expression that clearly said everyone should know this.

Patrick looked embarrassed. He caught Edith's eye across the expanse of white linen, signalling her to change the subject. She grinned at him as if to say, _I told you that it wouldn't be a secret for long; now my sister will pester you forever!_ He rolled his eyes at her, and they shared a secretive smile.

Not secretive enough. Robert, who rarely caught on to subtlety, chose this time to notice something odd. He narrowed his eyes at his daughter. What was he missing? Why was she grinning like the Cheshire Cat? He followed her gaze, and stiffened. There was something going on here, and he would like very much to know what it was.

He didn't have to wait long. Martha, who never missed anything and thought that subtlety was for fools, boomed down the table. "So, Edith, when are you two going to get married?"

A shocked silence fell upon the dining table. Sybil's eyes darted to her husband, who looked as if he'd been carved out of stone, and took in the puzzled looks of Evan, Deaglan, and Aislinn, the frozen faces of her mother and Mary, and the appalled look on the Dowager's face. Patrick's blue eyes were round and his face had drained of color. Then Sybil looked at her sister.

Edith was sitting bolt upright, her face alight, eyes fixed upon her father as she answered Martha's question. "Well, grandmama, it's funny you should ask that. We were just talking about that very thing on the voyage over, weren't we, darling?" And she turned to look at Patrick, her face shining with love and pride.

Lord Grantham's eyes were glassy. A mottled red moved up his neck and onto his set face as he looked at his daughter. Time stood still. Then, without another word, he stood up, pushed his chair back, and strode from the room.

 **August 21**

 **Downton Abbey**

The christening had gone off without a hitch, as everyone had known it would. Mary would have it no other way, of course, so she chose to ignore the surly silence of her father, for which she blamed her sister Edith. Nothing new there, Edith had always spoiled everything.

Sybil sighed as she climbed the stairs to check on her daughter. At least they had her to turn to when the tension grew too thick. Abby had taken to the Downton nursery as she did to everything else in her life, with joyful abandon and a natural complacency that she had certainly not inherited from either of her parents. She and Tom did not deserve such an easy-going child, they knew, but they accepted the gift nevertheless. The next one was sure to be a monster.

As she entered the nursery, Sybil saw that she was not alone. Her father stood next to the baby's cot, staring down at his grandchild. He turned to look at his daughter, and then turned away again to watch Abby sleep. They stood side by side in silence, allowing the peace of the room and the innocence of its small inhabitant to steal over them.

"Why?" said Lord Grantham, his voice bleak. "What did I do wrong?"

Sybil bit back the angry retort that rose to her lips, knowing that this moment was her only chance. "You did nothing wrong, Papa."

He snorted. "I had three daughters, raised them in a world that anyone would envy, gave them everything, and look what happened!" His tone was one of anguish mixed with confusion. "Why did none of you want what I gave you?"

Sybil took a moment to consider her next words.

"Papa, you were the best father anyone could wish for. You gave us the courage to reach for the stars, to find our own joy in the world. You allowed us to think for ourselves."

 _Of course_ , she thought, _a part of that was our rebellion against the things you thought we should think and want,_ but she didn't think this was the best time for that insight.

"But why?" It was almost a moan. "Why didn't you want Downton? Why did you and Edith have to choose men from such a different world? A world of danger, and hardship? None of you chose men from our class. Even Mary married a middle-class lawyer—a working man!"

"Well, Matthew _is_ going to be an earl," Sybil said, the corner of her mouth twitching. "That's something, isn't it?"

"Don't laugh at me!" Robert Crawley turned on his daughter. "Don't you dare laugh at me!"

Sybil placed her hand on her father's arm. It was rigid under her touch.

"Papa, do you like Tom? Do you think I made the right choice?" She waited, looking into his eyes.

He sighed. "Yes, I think you made the right choice. He's a wonderful man, and he's made you happier than I would ever have thought possible. He was right for _you…_ but what about Edith? She's not like you. She's the opposite of courageous! She never cared about working, or women's rights, or all that. How could she do it?"

"The world is changing, Papa. Women are finding that they can be useful, that their happiness doesn't depend on the rules of society. And you…you brought us up to be brave enough—yes, even Edith—to find our place in the new world, even if it wasn't where we ever thought it would be!"

She stepped back, putting her hands on her hips. "Would you ever have thought Edith could do what she did at dinner? Yes, she could have timed it better, I know…but have you ever seen her look so happy? Patrick is a good man, Papa. Like Tom. He was raised right, and he's good for her."

Without waiting for his response, Sybil went up on her toes and placed a kiss on her father's cheek. "We didn't need your permission to live the lives we wanted, Papa. But we hope we have it, anyway. Your children love you. That's something wonderful, and rare in this world. Try to keep it in mind, would you?" And she left him standing there, next to the crib. If his granddaughter had been awake, she would have seen tears in his eyes.

* * *

 **A/N:** Lord Grantham was not alone in his fears. The role of women in society had taken a massive leap forward in 1918 when women over the age of 30 were given the right to vote. Women began to step out of their rigid class structure to embrace new fashions, personal freedom and new ideas that challenged the traditional role of women. Traditionalists feared that this new morality and bid for freedom threatened class and family values and the conventional role of women in the home. Little did they know, it was just the tip of the iceberg.

 **Pronunciation Guide:**

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan

Maire - my + ra


	29. Serendipity

_When love feels like magic, you call it destiny. When destiny has a sense of humor, you call it serendipity._ _-_ Serendipity Trailer

 **August 25, 1921**

 **Port Isaak, Cornwall**

Maire and Evan stood on the northern seawall looking out over the Atlantic Ocean. They had come to Cornwall after the christening, as Evan had promised, so he could show her something of his roots, of the place that had made him the man he was. The man who, against all odds, she had come to love with every fibre of her being.

But the people who had molded him, who had bequeathed him his kindness, his empathy, and his tolerance, were gone. Evan's only brother had died in the Great War, and his father had followed a year later. His mother had lingered, a sad shadow of her former self, until the last year of the war, when she had followed her husband and younger son. Evan had confessed to Maire that he often thought she had only kept herself alive to see him safe through the war.

So by the time Evan left with the army for Ireland, there was nothing left of the family he had known except for the legacy of their love.

But they must have been wonderful people, Maire thought. Her husband couldn't have become the amazing man he was if they had been anything less. He had literally saved her life, and soon he would graduate from medical school and become a real doctor, saving other lives. She gazed up at his profile with affection, but soon turned her gaze to the ocean and studied the horizon once more.

Whitecaps and rolling waves, as far as the eye could see. It was almost inconceivable that anything lay on the other side of that endless ocean, but she knew that if she could fly across that sea she would find land out there. Not just any land…Ireland.

"You don't want to go back, do you?" Evan's soft voice penetrated her reverie and pulled her up short to look at him.

"What?"

"You want to go home, don't you?" Evan's calm hazel eyes met and held her own blue ones. "To Ireland."

"Oh, don't say it…I know we can't. You have another two years of school, and there's Martha, and…" she didn't think she'd be able to hold in the anguish that suddenly racked her body with the force of the want, the need. Why had he said anything? She would have been all right, if he hadn't said anything!

"Well, that's just it," Evan pulled her in and put his arms around her. "Martha already knows. We've been talking about it for some time now." He held her troubled gaze, his eyes calm and sure. "She's pulled strings—Lord knows how she knows all the right people—and gotten me into Trinity College Medical School in Dublin. You remember Dublin, don't you, darling?" He grinned at her stunned expression. "I start in September. That is, if it's all right with you. I know you like your job at O'Malley's, but you could probably get back on with Colum if you were really nice to him, and—"he broke off, suddenly alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"N-noth-ing!" Maire struggled to get the words out through her tears. "N-nothing at all. It's the most wonderful idea in the world, and you're the most wonderful man! What did I ever do to deserve you?" She threw herself at him, smothering him with kisses until he peeled her off, laughing.

"Well, let's see. You served me beer for months when all you wanted to do was pour it over my head. You snarled at me in a very fetching manner as you flounced around showing me how much you hated me." He narrowed his eyes. "You sicced your mother on me. You refused to marry me, and then you kidnapped me and took me to America. Now that I think of it, I can't remember a single thing you did to deserve me!"

Maire was crying again, but this time with laughter. She fought through the hiccupping and gasping for air, and put her trembling hand over his mouth. "Oh, shut up, you…you…Englishman!"

 **August 27, 1921**

 **Downton Abbey**

"Well, it's nearly over and no one has died, so for Downton that can be deemed a success," said Tom.

"Yet," giggled Sybil. "No one has died _yet_." They were walking in Downton's lovely garden. Abby was with her grandfather, and everyone else had gone into the village. For just this little while, they were blessedly alone.

"Darling, we have to discuss what's going to happen when we get home," Tom said. "The paper will be closing down soon—it was only started up to report on the Irish side of the war, and that will be over as soon as the treaty is signed. I'll be out of a job." He held his hat in his hands and fingered the brim nervously.

"You'll be able to get on with another paper, Tom," Sybil said with assurance. "You have a reputation now, any paper would be glad to have you."

"Yes, well, that's what we need to talk about. I'm not sure I _want_ to go back to a paper, just yet." He stopped and took both her hands in his, blue eyes fixed on her own. "I want to write a book. About the war, and how an Irish family survived the worst of it. I want to tell _our_ story. I've been thinking about it for a while now, and I know I wasn't making much money and now I'd be making none for a while, but I think I need to do this, darling. It's all inside me, it's almost written itself, and it wants to get out. Maybe I could help Daniel for a while, part time, while I write. And Edith says she wants to be my editor." He stood staring at her, waiting, his heart in his eyes.

Sybil's mouth twitched. "Humph. You've worked all this out with Edith, and forgotten to mention it to your wife?" She laughed at his guilty expression. "You've been afraid to tell me, haven't you?" She shook her head. "Silly man. You know I don't care about money. I think it's a wonderful idea. I have a good job. It won't be for long, you'll sell a million copies of your book, and we'll be as rich as King George!" She danced away from him and then came back. "And another thing. We can rent the flat to Patrick and Edith, and move back in with your mother until we get something small, just for us. It's perfect!"

Tom stared at his wife in amazement. He would never get over how little concern she had for the trappings of wealth, how unselfish she was. Here, in the shadow of the house in which she had grown up, the biggest mansion in the north of England, she was telling him that his becoming an impoverished writer was a grand idea because they could get rid of the beautiful flat that her grandmother had given them, and move into a small row house with his mother! He should be used to it, but he knew he never would be.

"Well," she said, her voice brisk, "now that we've gotten that sorted out, I have something to show _you._ " She led him around the house to the back, and moments later they were standing, hand in hand, in the garage where their story had begun so many years ago.

It had changed very little. There were more cars now, but the Renault was still there, proud as ever. Tom clucked over its condition, finding a cloth and running it over the hood with a loving hand, patting its bumper in sympathy.

"I know she misses me," he sighed. "See, the chauffeur isn't polishing her properly, and look at those tire rims! The man ought to be sacked!"

"Tom, darling, did you think I brought you out here to visit your old love? Or just maybe it was to reminisce about the times _we_ had in this garage! We're leaving in two more days, and this is our only chance." Her look was dangerous, and Tom dropped the cloth quickly.

"Of course, darling, it's just that—" he stopped talking, because Sybil had stepped in and plastered her lips to his. After a long moment he stumbled back in mock horror.

"My lady! What if your father were to come out to order the motor!"

Sybil giggled. "I don't think my father has the capacity to be shocked any more than he has been, poor man. Anyway, I wanted to discuss something with you, Mr. Branson, and this seemed the best place for it."

Tom slanted her a suspicious look. Was she still playacting now? He couldn't always tell. "Y-ess? And what might that be, that requires our being in the garage?"

"Well," Sybil sauntered around to the opposite side of the Renault. "Do you remember a conversation we had, after we discovered that Edith and Patrick had been…had been…well anyway, you said that when we met we just talked, for years. We never did anything the least bit naughty."

"Yes, I believe I remember saying that. I also remember that I had recently been shot. I was weak and vulnerable at the time, and I'd had a great shock, and-"

 **"** What you said," Sybil went on, ignoring him, "was that _we_ didn't take the opportunity to toss off our clothes and get it on in the Renault a few months after we met. That is exactly what you said," she grinned at him. "And _I_ think, now that we find ourselves back here in that self-same garage, with that very same Renault, we should remedy the situation. Re-write history, so to speak."

And with that, she slipped out of the dress that she had worn just for this occasion, knowing its capabilities, and let it fall in a puddle of silk to the floor. She was quite pleased with the effect, as she'd practiced for an hour earlier that afternoon.

"Sybil!" Tom sputtered. "Sybil…ahh, feck!" And then he said nothing more for quite a long time, as he was pulled into the back seat of the venerable old motorcar that had held their secrets for so many years. The Renault, of course, said nothing, although it rocked a bit in its stall, which could be expected due to its advanced age and the indignities being visited upon its smooth leather seats.

 **August 30, 1921**

 **Registry Office, London**

"Will he come, do you think?" Edith's face held such tremulous hope, Patrick wanted to hunt Lord Grantham down and strangle him. How could he even think to hurt this woman, this amazing person who wore her heart on her sleeve and had fought the demons of hell to be here, in this moment? His heart would have gone out to her, if it had not already been hers. _He_ was hers, body and soul. But he could not help her in this.

He thought back to the first time he had seen her, Lady Edith Crawley, daughter of the Earl of Grantham, whose name wasn't even Grantham. What strange people these aristocrats were, he thought. Couldn't even come up with one name and stick with it!

She had been sitting there at Sybil and Tom's wedding, nervous as a cat. He'd thought it was because she thought herself above them all, like that other one, Lady Mary. But something had drawn him over. Maybe it was the fact that he, with his face torn and bruised from the attack that had been meant to kill him, had found that life was precious, and every minute counted. And he had found that his own predjuces were unfounded.

She was a delight. They had talked for hours, and in that tiny yard at the back of Colum's pub, a seed of something had been planted. A seed that had grown, and blossomed, been cut back and survived to grow again stronger than before. The seed of a love he had never expected to find in this lifetime. And now she stood before him, her eyes filled with love for him, and he knew that God had decided, for some unknown reason, that he was worthy of such a love.

"Darling? It's time." Patrick squeezed her hand before moving to his place at the front of the registry office to stand waiting. In a few moments that beautiful woman would walk up the tiny aisle and rejoin him, and they would be declared man and wife. He would say the words that had been ready in his mind for nearly two years, that he had once despaired would never be said. He looked out at the group of people squeezed into the small space.

His brother Tom, who had paved the way for him with his courage to marry Sybil, Edith's sister, in the face of terrible consequences for them both. Sybil, his own first real love, with tears of happiness shining in her eyes for him and for her sister.

His brother Michael, and his fianceé Aislinn. He gave Aislinn all the credit in the world for having the patience and forbearance to deal with that one! Kathleen, engaged to Deaglan, who of all of them reminded him of himself the most. Maire, and her Englishman, Evan. Who could ever have imagined _that_ , but there they were, happy and at peace with the world. The Three Musketeers, alive and well and in love with the people they had been meant to find. Amazing.

He caught his mother's eye. She was trying to be brave, sitting next to Lady Grantham and pretending to work a speck of something out of her eye. But he knew better. Mam was a romantic, and he had always been her favorite. She'd never said, of course, but he knew.

Edith's sister, sitting ramrod straight and staring straight ahead, next to her husband Matthew. He pitied Matthew, wondered what it must be like to love someone so cold, so rigidly tied to society's rules and strictures. But the man seemed to love his wife, and she seemed softer when she spoke to him. To each his own, he wouldn't judge.

That crazy grandmother of Edith's, Martha, and the other one, Granny Viola? Violet? who seemed so far away from anything he had ever experienced that he had been shocked when she had approached him, just before they'd all entered the registry office. He'd been scared out of his boots, to be honest. She had marched right up to him.

"Young man!" (he could still remember the regal tone), "I hope you have at least a modicum of the sense your brother Tom has, because my granddaughter can use all the help she can get."

"Yes, ma'am," he had managed.

"Hummph! Well, blessings on you, then," had been the response, and she had sailed off. Now she was looking at him down her nose, as if waiting for him to cut and run for Ireland. He winked at her, and had the satisfaction of seeing her blush before she turned her nose back up where it had come from. That might have been—yes, he was almost sure it was—a ghost of a smile on her wrinkled face.

The music started. Edith looked at Patrick, took courage from the love in his impossibly blue eyes. Then she turned once more to look at the empty doorway of the registry office.

And he was there. Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, stood at the back of the room, tears running down his face. Rooted in place, he stared at his middle child, saw the look on her face, and was glad he had come to his senses…again. He stepped up and took her arm.

"You look beautiful," her father whispered. "I'm so proud of you." And together they walked down the short aisle to where her future waited.

The End

* * *

 **A/N:** No tidbit of history this time, but I thought that some of you might like to know that I have written a novel. Yep, it takes place in Scotland, not Ireland, and it's not FanFiction so of course it can't be about our favorite couple, but one of the love interests of my heroine just _happens_ to resemble our lovely chauffeur from _Downton Abbey_. If you're interested in learning more, I would be honored to have you visit my author's website. Apparently FF will not allow me to place a link here, but it is mmackinnonwriter . Add .com to the end, and we've gotten around the system! Click the widget "Books". The book is _The Comyn's Curse_. I write under the name M MacKinnon.

 **A/N:** And of course, I will be back with more about Tom and Sybil and their families, because I just can't leave them alone.


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